On the First Day of the World Meeting
by moonlighten
Summary: France's true love gave to him... Or: Scotland and France were friends in their youth, but drifted apart after the end of the Auld Alliance. When they meet unexpectedly at a World Meeting centuries later, they tentatively begin to reconnect. (Scotland/France; past-England/France; background Wales/Romano and America/England.) Multi-part, 12 chapters, complete.
1. 12 Bullet Points

Don't know if I'll have chance/time enough to write Christmas gift fics this year (though I really want to and will try...), but I hope this will suffice if I am unable to.

Despite the festively-themed title, it's not set at Christmas, and though the bros' and France's personalities are broadly the same as they are in FtF, their history is very different. I wanted to try my hand at writing some Scotland/France where they're nations and weren't ever romantically involved in their past, but are also not as angsty as their Slow Tide counterparts (though there will still be a little touch of angst).  
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France is, by now, convinced that England has organised every single aspect of this year's world meeting in a manner carefully calculated to best annoy him.

His suspicions were initially raised a month ago, when he received his copy of the event agenda and noted that each day's activities were planned to begin at eight o'clock, an hour – as England well knows – at which France is barely cognisant enough to pour himself a cup of coffee never mind deliberate on matters of global importance. To not even allow a little latitude on the very first day, when so many nations would be suffering from jet lag, or might simply have appreciated the opportunity for a lie in after their travels, seems like a deliberate act of malice.

France's own journey from what passed for English civilisation to this god-forsaken, wind-swept spot in the barren heart of the Lake District had been both long and arduous, rattling along for mile after twisting mile of potholed roads in his ageing, underpowered hire car which began to wheeze asthmatically as soon as the terrain became more mountainous, and beset around every corner by herds of itinerant sheep which had slowed his already leisurely progress to a lethargic crawl.

And all that to reach… nothing.

There's nothing to see for miles around but grass, rocks, and the odd resilient tree, clinging gamely onto the scree-covered hillsides, their winter-stripped branches like gnarled fingers pointed accusingly up at the unbroken bank of black-rimmed clouds overhead.

The hotel itself holds no diversions. Once, it had likely been the home of a wealthy but particularly reclusive member of England's upper crust, and was doubtless sold off, as so many were, following the Second World War when the family money began to run out. Whoever bought it afterwards apparently hadn't done a great deal to improve accommodations since then, either: it's dimly lit, all the furnishings smell faintly of ancient dust and mildew, and the only entertainment on offer is a single, gloomy bar manned by equally gloomy and antediluvian staff.

Last night, exhausted from his drive and his temper too snappish to inflict on the few nations who had huddled for warmth around the bar's long tables, France had ordered a single glass of brandy and sequestered himself in his mouldering room with it and his burgeoning headache. He'd tried to read, but didn't even manage to reach the end of the next chapter in his book before the deluge the leaden sky had been promising all afternoon was unleashed. The sound of the rain rattling against the windows was loud enough to be distracting, and he'd whiled away the few remaining evening hours that stood between him and sleep dreaming up ever more inventive ways of revisiting every gramme of his own displeasure upon England.

The rain had not stopped or even slowed when France arose at the crack of dawn this morning, but he still could have weathered this new aggravation with something approaching equanimity had England not compounded every other affront he'd perpetrated in the form of an email announcing a last-minute change to their schedule, rearranging the session on agricultural policies to run concurrently, starting at eight, with the one on biotechnology, instead of just after lunch as had been the original timetable. Having to learn that he would be forced to decide between the two presentations he had most wanted to attend as he choked down a breakfast of offensively weak coffee and charred toast made it all the more galling, and if Germany has anything interesting to say about biotech innovations over the course of the hour he's been allotted to talk on the subject, then it is lost on France. He's far too preoccupied with thinking about where he's going to hide England's body.

So vivid are these imaginings, so macabrely detailed and compelling, that when the two competing presentations end and their attendees are disgorged to mill around the corridor beyond the meeting rooms and he catches sight of England amongst the crowd – wearing the small, smug smile of someone well-pleased with the agricultural knowledge he's just absorbed – France's first instinct is to go directly for his throat, witnesses be damned.

Had England been alone, he might have done, but the figure looming at England's shoulder gives him pause. The tall, stoop-shouldered, and very familiar figure.

Scotland.

He hasn't attended a world meeting in decades, and France hasn't seen him in the flesh for almost as long, as his visits to England's house have declined precipitously in more recent years. Scotland doesn't appear to have changed a great deal since the fifties, however: he's just as intimidatingly broad as he ever was, and his suit is just as poorly fitted, pulling tight across his barrel chest, his shirt collar digging deep into his neck; his scowl is just as ever-present and thunderous; he's doubtless just as likely not to take too kindly to unprovoked attacks on England, though he might talk a good – and very convincing – talk to the contrary.

France's surprise both halts him in his tracks just outside throttling distance of the brothers and stops his tongue, and all he can do is stare in baffled silence at Scotland whilst Scotland's face shades towards vermillion and he shifts his weight from enormous foot to enormous foot.

England is the first to snap. "Is something wrong, Frog?"

France hardly knows where to start. The hour, the hotel, the weather, the vile, supercilious curl of England's top lip: all demand complaint, and each is as irritating as the last.

"Why did you rearrange this morning's meeting?" seems as good a place as any, though, as well as being a fresh enough insult that it still stings. "You must have known I would have wanted to attend both."

England snorts. "I can't say I thought of you, at all," he says. "Something came up. Circumstances change. It wasn't anything _personal_."

Judging by England's self-satisfied look, the superior tone of his voice, every word he's just spoken was a lie. France would like to challenge him on it – choke the truth out of him, by preference – but that can wait; he can bide his time until England has lost his bodyguard.

"Were there any handouts from your meeting?" he asks, striving to keep his own voice level and as inflectionless as possible. "Perhaps I could—"

"No," England says, sounding positively gleeful. "Italy forgot to bring them. Sorry."

"Or a recording I could—"

"No; something wrong with the equipment, I'm afraid." England affects a horrible parody of a sympathetic expression. "You know what the wiring's like in these old places. Simply _shocking_. You'll just have to do without, and—"

"Here, you can take my notes," Scotland's deep bass rumbles out suddenly, seemingly startling England, who wheels around to fix his brother with a glare of betrayal. Scotland ignores him, and continues with: "Can't say you missed a great deal, though."

The sheets of paper Scotland hands out towards him are dingy and crumpled, and France plucks them from his grasp cautiously, using only the very tips of his thumb and forefinger.

"Well, I can't imagine they'll do you much good," England says. "I've seen the sort of notes he takes in his own parliament's sessions. They're such a mess that he might as well not bother. Almost illegible."

In the past, that sort of accusation would have prompted a retaliation from Scotland – a cuff around the back of the head, an angry refutation, or, at the very least, a hissed 'wanker' and the threat that they'd 'have words' later – but, although a shadow of a frown does briefly crease Scotland's brow, the storm it would usually promise is not forthcoming.  
Curious.

The papers, too, are curious, and despite his distaste for the process, France unfolds them and smooths them out with a quick brush of his fingers, hoping that he might find _something_ of value there that would serve to prove England wrong.

It's only the very faintest of hopes, however. When he and Scotland were much, much younger, they had kept up a sporadic, dilatory correspondence for a century or so, and each of the letters France had received from Scotland had been clearly rushed off without care, those few words that weren't half-obscured by ink blots riddled with spelling errors and crossings-out.

He doesn't expect the intervening years to have wrought any significant improvements on that score, but is surprised, again, to instead see a neatly bullet-pointed list of notes, written in an even, blocky hand, which, even at a glance, look to be thorough if not exhaustive. The final page is surmounted by a scruffy sketch of England with an arrow sticking out of the back of his head. France understands the sentiment well.

"Thank you, _Écosse_ ," he says. "These look as though they will be very useful."

"No problem," Scotland says, his lips curving slightly into something that isn't quite a smile, but does warm his otherwise stony expression considerably. "If you need anything else, then—"

"Come on, enough chit-chat," England says, turning his glare from his brother onto France. As France is also long-inured to such looks, he ignores it just as easily as Scotland had done. "We've still got a lot of things to sort out before the next presentations."

He beckons for Scotland to follow him as he stalks away, but Scotland – as has been his habit for as long as France has known him – waits for a pointed moment before setting off after him, so as not to appear as though he's actually obeying his brother's demands.

"I guess I'll see you around, then," he says as he takes his leave.

And, "I hope so," France replies, though he is doubtful that they will be able to speak again for the remainder of the week.

England will almost certainly do his best to ensure they're not given the chance to do so. He's never liked it when it seems as though they might be in danger of getting along.


	2. 11am Coffee

Scotland's notes could well be as thorough as they had appeared upon a cursory inspection, if only they had been accompanied by some means of deciphering them.

France had commandeered a corner table in the hotel bar's inaptly named 'snug' in order to read through them in relative peace and quiet, but even after half an hour's diligent study, he has not been able to progress any further than the third bullet point in the list.

Although Scotland's current handwriting is indeed neat, each letter perfectly formed and legible, a large proportion of them are arranged in combinations that defy easy understanding; an esoteric shorthand of Scotland's own devising. France had been stalled on the particularly cryptic notation 'XQZ' for at least the past five minutes, and the margin of the paper is almost completely filled by his scribbled and increasingly desperate guesses as to its meaning.

' _Xylophone Queen Zenith_ ' had been his latest, most pitiful attempt. It has been many centuries since he last had cause to question his proficiency with England's language, but his continued failure to elucidate this one, simple acronym is causing him to wonder if he can truly consider himself fluent.

He scores out the words with a heavy enough hand that his pen nib tears the paper, and tries again.

' _Xenograft Qualif_ —'

"Here, you look as though you need this."

He looks up from the page to see Scotland standing at the opposite side of the table – he must have been even more absorbed in his work than he realised, because Scotland's size and general gracelessness do not lend themselves to clandestine movement, and yet he had not heard a single hint of his approach – holding a mug in his outstretched hand.

France appreciates the thought, but accepts the offering with some reluctance, given his unpleasant experience at breakfast that morning. He wraps his own hands around the mug, savouring the faint swell of warmth that seeps through the ceramic to heat his chilled palms, but declines to sample its contents.

Scotland's mouth splits into a grin at the sight. "Don't worry," he says, "it isn't hotel coffee. Portugal told me it tastes like earwax."

"Contraband coffee, then?" France says, raising an eyebrow questioningly. If it were any other nation, he would have assumed they had simply been better prepared than himself and thought to bring their own supply from home, but Scotland had always spurned coffee as undrinkable swill, just like his brother. "How did you manage to get your hands on it?"

"Magic," Scotland says, and though on its surface, the explanation sounds facetious, considering the source, France is unable to dismiss it out of hand entirely.

He sniffs gingerly at the steam rising from the mug. It smells rich and earthy, tempting, but still he hesitates over drinking any until Scotland tells him, "Don't worry, I bought it from a café. I needed to get out of here for a while earlier to clear my head, so I took a drive into town."

The nearest settlement that could pass for a town in the area is twenty minutes away. He would ask how Scotland managed to keep the coffee hot for so long, but suspects that his answer to that would be the same as his last, even though the more likely explanation is that Scotland's own room is better equipped than the dank hole he has been consigned to for the week, and might even boast such modern marvels as a kettle.

Instead, he says, "Thank you," and takes an experimental sip of the coffee. It tastes just as good as it smells. "Would you like to join me?"

Scotland reaches out as though to take hold of the chair in front of him and pull it out from beneath the table, but stops himself short at the last moment. "I can't," he says, shaking his head ruefully. "England wanted me to meet up with him ten minutes ago to help shift some chairs. There'll be hell to pay if I don't get a move on."

Once, Scotland would have relished any opportunity to thwart his brother's desires, no matter how petty, but, France supposes, times have changed, and there's no reason why Scotland and England's relationship couldn't have changed along with them.

"You didn't used to care about such things," he says.

Scotland laughs. "I still don't, most of the time, but he's got me over a barrel at the moment."

"How so?"

Scotland glances around himself and then, apparently satisfied by the otherwise deserted nature of the snug, he shuffles a little closer to France, his voice dropping low. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, because England will no doubt want to try and persuade you that he managed to wear down my defences with his superior debating skills or some such shite, but the only reason I'm here is because I don't want to lose a bet."

"A bet?"

"Aye, England was mouthing off about how it was actually a good thing that Wales and I never attend these meetings because we'd end up causing a scene and embarrassing him, and, well, we were drunk and determined to prove him wrong, and now we've got a hundred quid riding on getting through this week without twatting him."

" _Pays de Galles_ is here, too?" France asks, surprised. Whilst Scotland did attend world meetings on occasion between the two world wars, Wales had never once done the same, as far as France can recall.

Scotland nods. "And North; England decided to drag him along, as well. It's a 'valuable learning opportunity' for him, apparently. They're just better at hiding from England than I am, so they've managed to avoid playing dogsbody for him."

Northern Ireland is even more elusive than Wales, and France hasn't spoken to him since he was in short trousers. "I'd like to see them," he says. "Perhaps we could all meet down here for a drink tonight?"

"Aye, perhaps," Scotland agrees, though he doesn't sound especially enthused about the idea. "I'll let them know, but right now I should be getting my arse in gear, so…"

It's only when Scotland turns and starts to walk away that France remembers the vexatious matter of his notes. " _Écosse_ ," he calls out, halting Scotland immediately in his tracks. "Apologies, but could you help me with something quickly before you go."

Scotland is at his side in an instant. "What is it?"

"I'm afraid I'm having trouble following your notes," he admits. "I don't recognise some of the acronyms you've used."

Scotland leans over France's shoulder, eyes flickering back and forth as he reads through France's marginalia. "Ah, sorry about that." He grimaces. "I should have thought… They're not actually acronyms, they're mnemonics. They don't mean anything on their own. I'll rewrite the notes for you."

"There's no need to—"

"Look, it'll be quicker than explaining them," Scotland says, snatching up the papers before France has chance to protest further. "England's got my afternoon planned down to the minute, but I should be able to get them done this evening, then…" He pauses, eyes drawing closed momentarily. After taking a short, sharp breath in, he finishes with: "I'll bring them for you when we have that drink.


	3. 10th Volume of a Series

Most of the assembled nations had decamped as soon as the afternoon's meetings were finished, fleeing into town in the hopes of finding a more salubrious establishment in which to dine for their evening meal, as the lunch they were provided had reinforced what they had all suspected on the evidence of their woeful and disappointing breakfasts: the hotel specialises in the sort of bland, uninspired food that the English are so infamous for.

France had received several invitations to join the exodus in search of culinary pastures new, but, with a heavy heart, he'd had to decline them. He's bound to be very poor company – the day's vexations had compounded the headache and snappish temper that his early rising had engendered – and he can barely scrape together enough energy to stagger downstairs to the hotel's dining room, besides.

During his two-decade-long romantic misadventure with England, he had perfected the art of chewing and swallowing unpalatable food in such a way that it made only the briefest possible contact with his taste buds, so the thought of the inevitable plate of charred meat and overcooked vegetables does not fill him with the same sort of dread as it once did. It's just one meal, after all; he can endure.

The dining room is just as dreary as the rest of the hotel, with its dark, wood-panelled walls, balding grey carpet, and insipid paintings of bleak, windswept moorland vistas, which perfectly mirror the view out of the mullioned windows they surround. It's also smaller than it ought to be, given the number of guest rooms, and seems even smaller still due to the large number of tables that have been squeezed into the space, chairs practically touching each other back to back on all sides.

If they were filled, it would be almost impossible to navigate between them, but as it is, only one is in use. Scotland is seated at the table furthest from the door, far enough away that France might have been able to slink away unseen had Scotland not happened to glance up at exactly the wrong moment and catch sight of him whilst he was still contemplating making his getaway.

Scotland waves at him energetically, and then beckons him forward. France sighs out his irritation, plasters on a fake smile, and trudges over to join him.

"If you've come looking for those notes," Scotland says, "I haven't quite finished them yet, sorry."

"No, I've come to eat," France says. He hopes that his terse reply, the pointed step he takes away from Scotland and towards the neighbouring table, would make his desire to eat alone clear enough that he does have to say it aloud. His vile mood is no excuse for rudeness.

Scotland does not take the hint. "Really?" His eyes widen in surprise. "I would have thought you'd be going into town like everyone else. They were all acting as though they'd come down with botulism if they ate here."

"I'm too tired tonight." France's yawn is not feigned, though it is, perhaps, a trifle exaggerated. "I'll sample the delights of Ambleside tomorrow."

"Do you want to sit with me?" Scotland asks. "I've only just ordered my food."

Thankfully, there is a book propped up against the condiment bottles on Scotland's table, held open by his water glass, which offers a graceful alternative to saying 'no'.

"I wouldn't want to disturb your reading," France says.

"No problem; I've just" – Scotland's eyes quickly skim down the page in front of him – "finished."

"Oh," France says, disappointed, but still some deeply engrained and self-defeating spark of politeness compels him to ask, "Was it good?"

"Well, I thought so," Scotland says. "And your people did, too, apparently. Back when it was first published, it won the _Grand Prix de Littérature Policière_." His accent has deteriorated since the days they used to converse in France's language regularly, his burr rounding out the edge of every constant that should be sharp, and weighing down every vowel that should be long and lilting. "It probably wouldn't be your cup of tea, though."

He closes the book, and tilts it so France can see the front cover, upon which a picture of a solitary gnarled tree is printed, its twisted silhouette stark against a midnight blue-tinted sky. It's not a especially illuminating choice, but does suggest that the book's contents will be suitably dour and morbid.

"Why would it not be 'my cup of tea'?" France asks. "What do you think I like to read?"

"Oh, I don't know," Scotland says, breezy and off-hand, though the description that follows indicates that he has given the matter a great deal more thought than France would have expected. "Books where the main character introspects about their existential angst for several hundred pages of deathless prose, and then the whole thing just ends and nothing's resolved."

At first, France isn't sure whether he should be insulted or amused, but the smile that settles on Scotland's lips is light and teasing. France laughs. "Well, I can't deny that I like such things, but I have been known to enjoy detective fiction on occasion."

"You can borrow this, then, if you like." Scotland holds the book out towards France. "It's the tenth in the series, but Rankin always recaps everything important that's happened in the earlier books, and the protagonist – Inspector Rebus – is pretty much as you'd expect from the genre."

"A divorced, bad-tempered alcoholic?" France guesses.

"Separated, but otherwise spot on."

France has brought just one novel along with him to the conference, and he's finding reading it somewhat of a trial because the protagonist's narrative voice is grating, and it's difficult to summon up any sympathy for his existential angst as a consequence. A little light murder would be a welcome substitute.

"Thank you," he says, accepting the offered book, and then it only feels natural to sit down beside Scotland.

Scotland smiles again, and hands him a menu, whose contents are also pretty much as France would expect, given the setting. The 'traditional meat and two veg', as England would call it – whilst assuring him it was 'good solid fare' that he shouldn't 'wrinkle his nose' at – with a variety of pies scattered in and amongst.

"I know it isn't very exciting," Scotland says in response to France's frown, "but it should be edible. The food here has improved since the fifties, you know."

It's hardly a ringing endorsement, and France's expectations sink yet lower when the morose, ageing waiter shuffles out of the kitchen, bearing Scotland's food. As soon as he sees it, France hurriedly changes his mind about the choice he was going to make, and instead orders the salmon.

Transfixed in horror, he watches Scotland pick up his cutlery, giving every indication that he is actually going to sample some of the horrid, grey, shrivelled lump of meat. When he spears a morsel of it on his fork, France cannot in good conscience stay silent any longer.

" _Écosse_ , no!" he cries out. "You can't possibly eat that!"

Scotland looks at him askance. "Why not?"

"Because it's not even well-done, it's… it's _shoe leather_!"

"Which is exactly how I asked for it to be cooked," Scotland says, and, much to France's dismay, he pops the piece of so-called meat into his mouth, then chews it with evident relish. "It is lacking something, though."

"Yes, a bin. It shouldn't—"

"Naw, I was thinking it needs a wee bit of sauce."

The darting glance of Scotland's eyes gives his dreadful intentions away, but he moves just a fraction too quickly for France to counter, and grabs the ketchup before France is able to whisk it away from him, his fingers wrapping so tightly around the bottle that they will not easily be dislodged.

France changes tack and grasps hold of Scotland's wrist. " _Écosse,_ no," he reiterates firmly. "That poor steak has suffered enough already."

"I can eat my food however I damn well like, _An Fhraing_ ," Scotland says. "I thought we'd hashed that one out in the sixteenth century."

France pulls back on Scotland's arm, hard, and putting all of his weight behind it, but Scotland has always been the stronger of the two of them – almost preternaturally so – and slowly but inexorably he begins to lift the bottle from the table.

"Well, I was lying back then," France says.

"Oh? And why would you do that?"

 _Because we'd already started drifting apart, and I didn't want to risk pushing you further away, even slightly._

"Because I was young and foolish," France says with breezy nonchalance. "There is a right way and a wrong way to eat food, and that" – he glowers at the ketchup – "is most definitely the wrong way."

Scotland nods with what appears to be placid acceptance, but it's merely a diversion, an attempt to distract France whilst Scotland snakes his other arm around his periphery, heading towards the bottle's lid. France manages to catch him this time, folding his hand around Scotland's, and pressing down on his fingers until Scotland's forced to curl them protectively in towards his palm.

"You're not going to win," Scotland says. "When have you ever been able to best me in unarmed combat?"

His tone of voice is just as bland as his expression, but there's something like a challenge in the slight upward quirk of his bushy eyebrows, and suppressed laughter sparkling bright in the depths of his eyes.

France's own laughter is swelling warm in his chest, rising to the back of his throat, but he doesn't want to give Scotland the satisfaction of letting it escape. Cuisine is, after all, a serious business. "Ah, but I've learnt a lot since we last—"

"Am I interrupting something?" a cold, familiar voice cuts in.

It's England, glaring at them across the expanse of the table, his eyes narrowed in a suspicious squint.

Scotland's hands both slacken in an instant, and he offers no further resistance when France takes the ketchup bottle from him and stows it safely beyond arm's reach.

"Naw," Scotland says, "France just took exception to how I wanted to season my dinner."

"Typical," England mutters under his breath. He leans closer to Scotland and peers down at his plate. "Well, that looks good to me. I think I'll order it, too."

Which he does, when the waiter returns with France's salmon – though, irritatingly, he displays marginally better taste than his brother, and asks for it to be cooked medium rare – and then he hurls himself down into the chair opposite France's. His glare intensifies, and France toys, once again, with the idea of relocating to a different table. Ultimately, he decides to stay put, stubbornly refusing to let England chase him away, even though all three of them would likely be happier if he did so.

The salmon proves to be surprisingly flavourful, and France is sufficiently absorbed by his own enjoyment of the dish that he can tune England out for the most part as he blathers on and on about some small mistake on the part of the hotel staff that has forced him to make yet another change to the next day's meeting schedule. Scotland adds nothing to this one-sided conversation other than the odd, monosyllabic grunt, but then he did always tend to turn sullen and taciturn the moment England joined their company. France had detested that particular habit of his in their youth, and finds he doesn't much care for it now, either.

He doesn't linger over his food for as long as he usually might, and when the waiter offers to fetch him the dessert menu, he declines in his eagerness to leave behind the inimically frosty atmosphere England had brought along with him to the table, even though the success of the main course had left him curious to sample more.

England doesn't even do him the courtesy of looking at him as he makes his goodbyes, but Scotland catches light hold of his sleeve when he stands up from his chair, stilling him before he can walk away from the table.

"Are you still up for that drink tonight?" he asks. "We're planning to meet up in the bar around eight."

France's first instinct is to say no, but the way England's expression sours at the question, curdling like spoilt milk, gives him pause. He clearly wants France to decline the invitation, and though the prospect of an early night is tempting, the opportunity to thwart England's desires is even more so.

"Of course," France says, with a soft, languid smile he directs solely at Scotland. "I'm looking forward to it."


	4. 9 point 5 ABV Wine

The shower in France's room in underpowered, but he stands under the spluttering dribble of tepid water it spits down on his head until every last speck of its meagre heat has run out, scrubbing himself until his skin is practically squeaking.

Afterwards, he forgoes straightening his hair as he usually would, and instead combs it through with his fingers and lets it air dry into its natural loose curls whilst he trims and buffs his fingernails.

Although he'd spent the best part of half an hour picking out the perfect outfit earlier, when he puts it on and inspects his reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the bathroom door, he finds that the pale blue shade of his shirt makes him look washed-out, and even more wan and tired than he feels.

He begins the entire rigmarole all over again, laying various combinations of trousers and shirts out on the bed, standing back to evaluate the effect, then holding them up against himself as he stands in front of the mirror again. It does occur to him that he's procrastinating, or maybe – as his gaze drifts to the soft wave of his hair as it falls about his face – even…

He squashes that stray thought down ruthlessly hard, because it's unproductive, futile, and he already knows that it will tend towards painful if he allows himself to dwell. It's been a long time since his mind wandered in that particular direction, but with circumstances being as they are, he supposes it was somewhat inevitable. He never would have expected it to happen so soon, though.

He drops the shirt he's holding and lets it fall into a crumpled heap on the floor, deciding – with a certain amount of petty, directionless spite – that he's not going to change his clothes, no matter how unflattering they are. What does it matter if he doesn't look his best? There's no-one here that he needs to impress, after all.

It's closer to nine than eight when he finally makes his way down to the bar, and his delay might have been a costly one. Whatever delights Ambleside does have to offer clearly close early, as most of the nations who set out to sample them seem to have returned to the hotel to round out their evening. The room is heaving with them, packed in as tightly as the proverbial sardines.

He forces his way through the concretion of bodies, pausing every so often to push himself up onto the balls of his feet so he can peer over the top of the mass of thronged heads, or to offer an apology to whichever nation he'd most recently elbowed in the side by accident as he squeezed past them. Most ignore him, obviously inured to being buffeted about by the odd intrepid explorer trying to navigate across the room, but one takes persistent offence, grabbing hold of France's arm from behind, and clinging on even after France attempts to wrench it free.

"Look," he says, shuffling around carefully to face them, "I'm just—"

He swallows back the words he was about to let fly – which were, perhaps, a little impolitic anyhow, on account of his fraying temper – when he recognises that his tenacious hanger-on is Wales.

He's carrying a little more weight in his cheeks and around his always-generous middle than he had been when France last saw him in person, walking down the _Champs-Élysées_ arm in arm with England on VE day, but is otherwise unchanged. He's still just as pale and harassed-looking, and he still hasn't discovered the right product strong enough to tame his flyaway hair.

"Alasdair sent me to look for you," Wales says, referring, France presumes, to Scotland. The tissue-thin subterfuge of human names seems a particularly pointless one tonight – given the din, it's unlikely that the bar staff will overhear them – but if the brothers are going to insist on them, that information will be useful. Scotland had still been going by James, the last time France had had cause to use a pseudonym for him. "We have a… Well, we've only managed to hang on to a corner of the table, I'm afraid, but we do have a sofa."

The sofa is, fortuitously, close at hand, and Wales has to drag France only a few steps to the side and a few more forward to reach it. Scotland is sitting at one end of it, dressed now in a muddy brown, woollen jumper and faded jeans with rips at both knees, and Northern Ireland is huddled at the other, his long legs tucked up beneath him.

The changes the decades have brought to him are much more striking, and would have been shocking, if England didn't have the habit of thrusting the latest additions to his vast collection of family photos under the nose of anyone who was unfortunate enough to be seated next to him in meetings. Scotland and Wales rarely appear in them, but Northern Ireland is a favourite subject of England's, and France has been able to follow the progress of his rapid growth from afar through paper and, later, England's phone screen.

Although it's not immediately obvious due to his hunched posture now, he is only a few centimetres shorter than Scotland, and, facially, resembles Scotland at the same apparent age so strongly that he might as well be a clone of his brother transported directly from the eleventh century. To France's eye, the only is difference that Northern Ireland's hair is a brighter red and far more orderly, lying sleek and acquiescent against his skull, whereas Scotland's has always stuck up at all angles, as though striving to get as far away from his head as it can.

Wales seats himself next to Northern Ireland, and then tells Scotland to, "Budge up and make room for Francis."

Scotland draws his widely-sprawled legs together, shuffles over until his left hip hits the sofa's arm, and folds his hands together to rest neatly in his lap, but there's only so small that a six-foot-two man with shoulders like a carthorse's can make himself, and France still ends up pressed against his side when he tries to wedge his body into the tiny gap Scotland manages to create.

Scotland endures the contact for no more than the span of a heartbeat before shying away from it in the same, old way he always used to, moving first to perch on the arm of the sofa, and shortly thereafter springing to his feet.

"Do you want a drink?" he asks. "There was a wine list there earlier" – he gestures towards the small table beside the sofa, which is mostly covered in empty glasses – "but fuck knows where it's got to now. I can't promise you anything, but I imagine they've probably got at least one white, red and rosé."

"White, please," France says, reaching for his wallet, but Scotland shakes his head, retrieves his own from the back pocket of his jeans, and says, "I'll get it."

"Bloody hell," Wales says. "I feel like I've just sighted Bigfoot or something."

"Fuck off, Dyl," Scotland growls.

"I'm going to get a picture," Northern Ireland says, holding his phone aloft, "otherwise Arthur will never believe us."

"You too, Mikey."

When France turns to Wales in search of an explanation, he laughs and says, "He's been tight as a duck's arse since he moved out on his own."

"And _you've_ been talking to James too much," Scotland says. "I am not _tight_ , I'm _frugal_."

"You wash out your freezer bags and reuse them!" Northern Ireland says.

"Aye, cutting down on my plastic waste. Which is good for the environment."

"You reuse your teabags, too," Wales says. "Which isn't any good for anything or anyone."

"Hanging them out to dry" – Northern Ireland mimes adding pegs to a clothesline – "at the end of every day."

"I don't," Scotland assures France. "I have a little pot that I—" He cuts himself off abruptly, breath whistling sharp through his clenched teeth. "Christ, I've had enough of this. I'm going to the bar. You two can slander me all you like whilst I'm gone, but you'd better have got it all out of your system by the time I get back, you ken?"

But neither of them will be drawn on the subject after Scotland has stomped – cautiously – off into the crowd. Northern Ireland folds back in on himself and doesn't say another word, and Wales talks unswervingly about the day's meetings, refusing to be steered off his chosen course and onto more personal matters, despite France's best attempts at diverting his flow of words in that direction.

They had long since exhausted the topic by the time Scotland returns from the bar: red-faced, scowling, and bearing not only France's wine but three bottles of lager, too.

"These are the last ones I'm going to get you tonight, so you'd better make the most of them," he says as he hands two of the bottles to his brothers.

The wide-eyed surprise with which they receive them suggests that such acts of generosity are not a regular occurrence, and France suspects that this one was performed solely in an attempt to refute their accusations of parsimony.

France's wine was evidently purchased in the same spirit, as its glass is both over-sized and filled to the brim. He could probably make it last for the rest of the night, but discovers upon tasting it that it is not worth savouring. It's a Muscadet, and definitely not a good one: sharp and acidic with a strange, oily aftertaste.

"I think I'll try the red next time," he says.  
-

* * *

-  
The red is no better, so France declines to sample the rosé, and Wales buys him a lager on their third round.

He intends to sip on it slowly, but inadvertently falls into the rhythm of the brothers' drinking, instead. The pace they set is punishing, and they throw their own drinks back so quickly that France has often wondered whether they can actually taste any of them. Taste has never seemed to be the point, though. The swiftest possible journey towards inebriation is.

They talk about inconsequential things as they race to the bottom of their respective bottles, never once touching on any aspect of their shared past. Their conversation is desultory as a consequence, and France is soon content to sit back and just listen to Scotland and Wales tease one another and bicker good-naturedly back and forth in a way they very rarely indulge in when England has been added to their number.

It makes his absence all the more glaring, and France finally grows curious enough about it to ask, "Where is Arthur tonight?"

Wales and Scotland exchange an uneasy glance, and both seem unwilling to answer until France repeats himself, fearing that he must have been misheard.

"Fuck knows," Scotland says, with a loose, dismissive shrug. "He's in a snit about something, though, so he's probably just sulking in his room."

He changes the subject before France has chance to question him further.  
-

* * *

-  
Shortly after dropping their fifth round off to their tiny sliver of table, Wales disappears.

Scotland bemoans his desertion to both France and Northern Ireland, and restlessly scans the surrounding crowd again and again until he finally spots him. When he does so, he groans.

France follows the direction of his gaze, and is surprised to see that Wales is standing with Romano nearby. "I didn't know they knew each other," he says.

"They got to talking at the last Six Nations," Scotland says, frowning disapprovingly.

"I thought you didn't attend the matches. I've never seen you at any of them."

"We do, but Dylan and I usually keep a low profile to avoid running into that grumpy bastard over there, or…" Scotland's voice rasps into silence, and he clears his throat with a sharp cough before continuing with: "Anyway, Dylan went a bit hard on the victory drinks after his team beat Italy, Lovino somehow tracked him down in the pub and, well, it was all a bit… fraught."

Northern Ireland unfurls slightly from his sodden slouch to add, "Sexually charged."

"What the fuck, Mikey?" Scotland stares at him, aghast. "Shit, I don't know why you'd…" He turns hurriedly towards France, his eyes growing wide and beseeching. "It didn't, it just got a bit—"

"Handsy," Northern Ireland says.

"I don't know where the hell you get these ridiculous ideas from. Dylan can't stand him!"

France looks over at Wales and Romano again. They're standing even closer – unnecessarily so, given that the crowd has already begun to thin out – their heads bent together and expressions intent. "They seem to be getting along well enough now," he says.

Northern Ireland gives a sage nod of his head. "I reckon they're going to shag before the end of the conference."

Scotland frowns. "Jesus, you know I wouldn't normally say this, but I think you've had enough to drink." He plucks Northern Ireland's lager from his unresisting hands, sets it aside, and reassures France that: "He's not usually like this." Then, as if to reassure himself, he firmly reiterates, "Dylan can't stand him. It's never going to happen."

Wales has laid a hand on Romano's arm, and his face is flushed pink to the tips of his ears.

"I think you might be right," France tells Northern Ireland.

Northern Ireland smiles smugly at Scotland. "Bet you a fiver they will."

Scotland's face crumples, and he bites down hard on his bottom lip, clearly torn with indecision. It's obvious that he finds the tenor of this whole discussion as distasteful as he ever did, but on the evidence of fact he is at the conference at all, he still can't back down from a wager, either.

"Fine," he says, sullenly shaking the hand Northern Ireland holds out to seal their deal. "You're on."  
-

* * *

-  
After round seven, Wales finally returns to their table.

Northern Ireland is fast asleep, curled up tight against the sofa arm beside him, and France is not far behind. He's beyond exhausted, his mind sluggish, and he can't seem to sit upright anymore. Over the course of the past hour or so, he had listed, slowly but surely, to one side until he came to rest against Scotland once more. Scotland must be drunk enough to not care about the imposition, as he hasn't made any attempt to shift him.

France has seldom been permitted to remain so close to him, certainly not for centuries, but the comforting warmth of his body is just as he remembers. It's like sitting huddled close to an open fire. Even though he probably should have returned to his room a long while ago, he's been very reluctant to move.

Wales bends over Northern Ireland and says, "I think it's time you went to bed, don't you?"

Northern Ireland blinks at him groggily, and mumbles a slurred protest against the idea, which Wales ignores.

"Come on" – he takes careful hold of Northern Ireland's arm, and pulls on it gently – "up you get."

Northern Ireland makes only a token effort at resistance before allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. He sways alarmingly, and if Wales' wasn't there to guide his steps after saying good night for the both of them, France doubts he would have managed to make his way out of the bar, never mind find his way back to his room.

"I think I'll turn in, too," Scotland says once they've left, his voice low and rumbling deep in his chest. "How about you?"

France has no real reason to stay now, and the next day's eight o'clock start suddenly seems to loom large and forebodingly close on the horizon. "Probably a good idea," he says.

When he stands, his stomach pitches, and the room swirls vertiginously around him, throwing him off-balance. He staggers forward a step to try and right himself, and then another, but the floor seems to keep tilting beneath him and he likely would have fallen on the third step had Scotland not grabbed his elbow, held him steady.

"Looks like you could do with a bit of help, as well," he says, and though there's a thread of amusement running through the words, it doesn't quite mask the concern. His fingers dig deep into France's flesh, firm and assured of their place, but then he never was circumspect about touching France when he thought it had some _purpose_. When they sparred together as children, or he was guarding his back in battle, or, apparently, attempting to save him from himself.

Irritated, France shakes him loose. "I'm fine, _Écosse_!"

"Sure you are." Scotland snorts. "Right, I'll keep my hands to myself, but I am going to come along with you, just to make sure you don't trip and break your neck, okay?"

France doesn't have the energy to continue fighting. "You can do whatever you like," he says.

As promised, Scotland does maintain his distance as France makes his slow, halting way upstairs, but he looks poised to scoop France off his feet and sling him over his shoulder at the first sign that he might be teetering again. He had done so several times when they were younger, and France had been foolish enough to try and match him drink for drink. They had been extremely bumpy rides, and excruciatingly embarrassing, so France keeps upright and moving mainly through the force of his determination to never repeat the experience.

By the time they reach his room, the bed's siren call is strong enough that even the small pause France has to make to turn on the lights stretches so agonisingly long that he can't bear the thought of the time he'd waste in undressing, or even removing his shoes. Last night, he'd been certain that the bed's mattress was hard and lumpy, fit only for burning, but when he flops down on it now, face-down and fully clothed, it feels to cradle him like a lover's arms.

For a long while, all is silent, and France thinks Scotland must have left, satisfied that he'd done his duty, but eventually the heavy, dragging sound of his tread starts up again, moving around the room.

"England really is a vindictive bastard," he says. "All of the other rooms were refurbished a couple of years ago, but I guess they didn't bother with this one. What a shithole. You don't even have a kettle!"

The curtains rattle along their runners as Scotland draws them, and then his footsteps retreat into bathroom. The tap runs, and when he returns, France hears the clink of a glass being placed on his bedside table.

Scotland is quiet and still for a moment once more, but then a flurry of stirred air washes over France's skin, and when Scotland speaks again, his voice is much closer to France's ear. France presumes he must be crouching beside the bed.

"Do you need anything else?" he asks, barely louder than a whisper.

France would very much like to take off his shoes, if nothing else, and doubts his ability to coordinate his fingers with sufficient skill to tackle the laces. He can't even begin to contemplate asking that of Scotland, though, so he shakes his head.

"Right." Scotland exhales slowly, almost a sigh. "I'll leave you to it." There's another faint inrush of air as he stands, and the floorboards creak as he walks towards the doorway. "If you need anything…"

The offer goes unfinished, and the next thing France hears from his direction is a muted thump as he closes the door behind him.


	5. 8am Breakfast

France is not gently roused from his sleep by the unobtrusive, cascading notes of his alarm, but is instead hauled out of it by a loud thudding sound.

His body awakens with a sudden start, heart racing, but his mind is slow to follow, and for a disorienting, dislocated moment he struggles to remember where he is or why he might be there, and thus cannot begin to comprehend what on earth the noise could have been.

He lifts his head slightly and tries opening his eyes. The dry, gritty drag of his eyelids makes the process a painful one even before they're parted far enough to admit light and what feels to be a thousand tiny, sharp needles are forcibly jammed against the back of his skull.

France groans and lets his head fall down onto the pillows again. The faint musty smell that emanates from them serves as a stark reminder that he is not at home in his lovingly maintained apartment, but consigned to a dilapidated hotel room for the duration of a world conference. A conference in which he is expected to attend meetings with maliciously early start times. He cannot recall having done so, but he must have asked one of the hotel's staff to make sure he is up and about at an unreasonable hour, because when the noise repeats itself, it's immediately clear now that it is caused by someone knocking on his door.

They're surprisingly zealous about the task, persisting in it even after France has called out, "Thank you. I'm awake."

They likely can't hear him over the din they're creating. France gingerly pushes himself up into a sitting position, and swings his legs off the bed. His head throbs, pounding with the same rhythm as the knocking.

He repeats, "Thank you," with more force, but to no avail.

Clearly, the lip service of mere words will not suffice, and he needs to provide physical proof of his return to consciousness. To that end, and after a few false starts, he manages to lurch to his feet and totter over to the door, even though his legs are weak and shaky, and it feels as though all of his joints have been replaced by loose rubber bands.

When he wrenches the door open, he catches Scotland mid-knock.

"You're awake, then," he observes pointlessly, letting his arm drop back down to his side.

"I don't think even the dead could have slept through that racket," France says.

"Sorry." Scotland's cheeks pink. "It's just… Last night, you said you really wanted to attend the presentation on renewable energy, but you were so out of it I thought you might have forgotten to set your alarm, and I…" His words falter into silence, and he shrugs. "But here you are, already up and dressed."

That comes as news to France. He had assumed that he had put on his one pair of pyjamas, donned only in situations, like this, wherein he is leery about his skin coming into contact with dubiously laundered sheets. A quick downward glance confirms that he is still dressed in a shirt and trousers.

"These are the same clothes I was wearing last night, _Écosse_ ," he says flatly.

"They are?" Scotland blinks at him, brow creased. "I suppose they are a bit crumpled, now you come to mention it. Well, at least you managed to get your shoes off in the end."

France can't remember doing that, either, but then much of last night is little more than blur.

"I'll leave you to get changed and so on, then," Scotland says as he turns away from the door. "See you in the meeting."

France's sense of gratitude for this unsolicited wake-up call, already muted due to its cacophonous nature, dwindles yet further when he checks his phone. Whilst he had indeed forgotten to set an alarm just as Scotland had feared, that doesn't negate the fact that it's almost twenty to eight.

Even on a normal day, he needs at least an hour to get ready for work, not in order to 'primp and preen in front of the mirror' as England has so often accused him of, but because he prefers to ease into his day in a leisurely fashion, and hates to rush.

He pares his morning routine down to its absolute bare minimum, foregoing both coffee (no great loss, considering the alternative) and doing anything with his hair other than scraping it back into a ponytail whilst it's still damp from the shower, but makes it to the conference room with only four minutes to spare, even so.

Most of the seats around the long table there are already taken, leaving only two spares: one next to Scotland, the other, Estonia. France's first instinct is to choose the latter, as Estonia can be counted on to be a relatively quiet, unobtrusive neighbour during meetings, but Scotland holds aloft a cardboard cup that tempts France over to his side despite his misgivings about the idea.

"You went to the café again?" France says, grabbing hold of the proffered cup with a greedy haste that Scotland very kindly overlooks.

"Aye, I needed a spot of fresh air," Scotland says. "And you seemed to like it yesterday."

And, as it was yesterday, it's still piping hot, but France is too grateful for it to question that oddity today.

"I got this for you, too." Scotland slides a small, brown paper bag across the table towards France. "I doubt it's as good as you're used to, but I reckoned you might not have time for breakfast otherwise, so…"

France unrolls the top of the bag, and peeks at the contents. It's a croissant, and far more deserving of the honour of the name than the sad, flat attempts at the pastry that France has been driven by desperation to attempt eating in the past whilst visiting England's country. Plump and flaky, it would probably look quite appetising under different circumstances; now, France's stomach does a barrel roll at the sight of it, and his gorge rises bitter at the back of his throat.

"Thank you, _Écosse_ ," he forces himself to say. "That was very thoughtful of you."

And it was, if a trifle misguided, but then Scotland never could seem to understand that his unfair immunity to the after-effects of his frequent over-indulgences was a rarity, even among their kind. He's practically glowing with good health, just as he always is, and no doubt enjoyed a hearty breakfast as well as his early morning stroll.

Wales and Northern Ireland, seated to Scotland's right, look as wretched as France feels: both grey-skinned and red-eyed, and unwilling to talk beyond the raspy 'good morning's they offer him. France is thankful for their silence, and thankful, too, that Scotland lets the thin thread of their conversation drop, leaving him free to sip at his coffee in peace whilst Germany finishes setting up the equipment for his presentation.

Unfortunately, he is as punctual as ever, beginning his opening speech at exactly eight on the dot, and the caffeine hasn't yet had time to percolate through France's body and spur his lethargic brain into life. He tries to concentrate on what Germany's saying, but his thoughts keep slipping away from him – circling endlessly and morosely around his own discomfort: his queasy stomach, sore muscles and aching head – and he recognises no more than one word in ten.

His notes, usually so meticulous, are somewhat sparse as a consequence. Scotland, meanwhile, sounds to be scribbling industriously away at his own, and France glances at them slantwise, partly out of curiosity, but mostly out of the hope that they might help him to catch up with everything he's already missed thus far. They're just as neat as those Scotland had lent him before, his hand clearly unaffected by either tremors or cramped fingers, and, unhelpfully, also just as cryptic, his latest notation being 'SWV' followed by a picture of a stylised Christmas tree.

Scotland pauses for a moment, seemingly listening intently to Germany, and then writes: _Keep your eyes on your own work. No cheating!_

The quirk of his lips makes it clear that the words were meant as a joke, but France feels strangely embarrassed to have been caught looking over his shoulder, so to speak, and hurriedly returns his attention back to his own notepad. His last entry there is the equally cryptic and useless ' _Solaire?!_ ' even though, to the best of his knowledge, Germany has yet to move past the topic of tidal power.

Scotland pokes him in the arm with the end of his pen, then, when France looks his way again, taps it against the page open in front of him, on which he has written: _I can make a copy of these notes too, if you like._

France shouldn't like, as that would represent a shameful shirking of his duties, willingly indulged, but, then again, what he's been capable of achieving here already is hardly fulfilling his obligation to his people's interests, either, and he can't imagine that situation changing in any significant way over the remaining three quarters of an hour the meeting is scheduled to run. If he accepts Scotland's offer, then he might have a chance, at least, of taking something useful away from the morning.

He nods, mouths ' _Merci_ ,' to Scotland, and then leans back in his seat and does his best to look as though he's still paying attention whilst simultaneously trying to rest his tired eyes as often as possible.

Germany winds up his presentation at ten to the hour, to allow time for his usual question and answer session. Several heads turn towards France, who normally has a list of them prepared, but he can only tell Germany: "Nothing from me. That was very informative, _Allemagne_."

Germany looks as though he doesn't know whether to be pleased or concerned by that, and his expression flickers uncertainly before he finally settles on a frown, as is his wont. As no other questions materialise – and, perhaps, because he is a little flustered by this break from their time-worn routine – Germany quickly thereafter reads out his closing statements and calls the meeting to an end, releasing them an unprecedented five minutes early.

Scotland nudges France's shoulder with his own as he gets to his feet. "We're going out for a fag, if you fancy one," he says.

Nicotine might just be the much-needed jolt to France's system that caffeine had failed to provide. "I forgot to bring a packet with me," he says. "If you give me a moment to go back to my room, then—"

"Don't worry about it," Scotland assures him. "You can just nick one off Wales. That's what we all do. He won't mind."

At the end of the corridor outside the conference room, France turns to the left, heading towards the hotel's front door and the designated smoking area at the edge of the car park. Scotland catches hold of his sleeve again, shakes his head when France looks at him questioningly.

"We'll have to go out back," he says, "so England's less likely to find us if he happens to come sniffing around. He still likes to pretend that we were a good enough influence on North that he doesn't smoke."

'Out back' is a walled garden, which has the same neglected air as the rest of the hotel. Its flowerbeds are home only to weeds and the long-barren skeletons of dead rose bushes, the lawn is unkempt, and the gravel path that wends along its length is almost completely denuded of gravel.

The path leads to a paved area, abutting the back wall, which is covered in algae and moss, the flagstones treacherously slippery underfoot. France picks his way across them cautiously, taking small, careful steps, but the brothers stride forward with an easy confidence which suggests they have made this particular journey many times over the last couple of days.

Wales provides them all with cigarettes and a light without comment or complaint, and then he and Scotland retreat to lean side by side against the wall as they smoke, their shoulders pressed close together.

The sight reminds France strongly of their time together in the trenches, though it had been England in Wales' place beside Scotland then. France had watched them often, and told himself that his eyes were only for England.

The memory stirs the other nation to the forefront of France's thoughts again, and he asks, "Still no sign of England? I noticed he wasn't in the meeting."

Scotland shrugs. "He'll be a bit worse for wear after last night, no doubt. He's probably sleeping it off somewhere."

"He didn't come back to the room last night," Northern Ireland pipes up from his perched seat on the edge of a large, cracked terracotta planter filled with a thicket of dandelions. "I think he must have stayed with—"

Northern Ireland flushes, hurriedly gulping back his next word even before Scotland barks out his name, sharp with warning. All three brothers turn towards France then, their faces wearing identical pale masks of anxiety.

It takes France a moment to figure out the most likely source for their concern, and when he does so, he can't help but laugh.

"With America," he finishes for Northern Ireland.

Scotland gapes at him. "You already knew that they're…"

"Together?" France nods. "I imagine everyone does by now. England's hardly been subtle about it."

"So, it doesn't… doesn't bother you at all?" Scotland asks.

"I haven't been pining after him, if that's what you're worried about," France says. "I've moved on, and I had expected England to do so, too."

And he had correctly anticipated whom England would move on with. The only surprise was that it had taken so many years for it to happen.

"Thank Christ for that." Scotland shares a swift grin with Wales before letting his head fall back to rest against the wall behind him again. "We thought we'd have to be covering up for him all week."

"It's been almost seventy years since England and I parted ways," France says, slightly incredulous now. "That would be a very long time to have been nursing a broken heart, don't you think?"

Both Scotland and Wales look baffled at that, as though the concept is an entirely foreign one to them. France supposes he might have felt the same way once, before he learnt to be ruthless with his own emotions. It had been one of the harshest lessons of his youth, but had proven, time and again, to also be one of the most beneficial.

"I suppose so," Scotland says at length. He lets out a shaky laugh. "Jesus, well, at least I won't have to keep running myself ragged anymore, trying make sure you don't figure it out."

France wonders, then, if Scotland's uncharacteristically friendly overtures towards him of late might all have been part and parcel of his efforts at concealment, meant only to distract him from England's movements.

Given Scotland's tendency in more recent times towards interacting with him as little as the bounds of politeness would allow, his sudden gregariousness should have raised France's suspicions, but it hadn't. He hadn't paused to wonder before now, or to question; he had allowed himself to get swept along with it all. Again.

The thought stings, but only for an instant before France tamps it down, smothers it completely: yet another skill he has had to become adept at over the centuries.


	6. 7(00) Down Fill Coat

Having no wish to repeat the previous day's disappointment of slightly stale sandwiches and limp salad, France eschews the catered lunch in favour of finding out what culinary delights the hotel bar might have to offer when the morning's meetings have ended.

The menu there is sparse and uninspiring, but the fish and chips he eventually – and a mite resentfully – orders both looks and smells remarkably palatable. It is also laden with grease, and he manages to eat only one chip and a tiny morsel of fish before his stomach rebels and begins to gurgle ominously. He hurriedly sets the plate aside, places his head in his hands, and concentrates very hard on forcing down his nausea and not throwing up.

He blames this complete absorption with his recalcitrant digestive processes for Scotland being able to sneak up on him unawares for the second time in so many days, and he has installed himself, snug and secure, in the chair opposite France's before France has even consciously registered his presence, never mind had the opportunity to register his objections against the imposition.

"That looks good," he says, casting an avaricious eye over France's abandoned fish and chips, his nostrils flaring appreciatively.

"Be my guest," France says, pushing the plate across the table towards him. "I couldn't possibly manage another bite."

Scotland demurs – "Are you sure? You've hardly touched it." – but only very briefly before tucking with great gusto, his appetite clearly undiminished by last night's excesses, just as France had suspected.

He had thought of Scotland as something close invulnerable once, because nothing ever did seem to touch him: not alcohol, or fear, or doubt, much less the smaller, meaner feelings that had so often plagued France himself. A ridiculous notion, but towards the end of their alliance, France had nonetheless come to hate him for it, just a little.

Centuries past that adolescent blaze of anger and resentment, there remains only mild irritation and envy for the robustness of Scotland's stomach.

After he has scraped the plate clean, Scotland leans back and regards France speculatively. "Do you know what the best cure for a hangover is?" he asks at length.

Obviously not fatty food, even though England had always shaken his head despairingly over France's complete refusal to eat the full English breakfast he habitually cooked after a heavy night's drinking, claiming it to be the perfect cure.

"Drink lots of water, and then go back to bed," is, France believes, the general medical consensus on the matter.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," Scotland says, though the disdainful curl of his top lip betrays that he is somewhat scornful of the suggestion. "But fresh air's much better! I'm about to go for a walk, do you fancy coming with?"

France sighs. "You don't need to do this anymore, _Écosse_. As I already told you, it's not going to be a problem if I happen to run into England and America."

"Fine," Scotland says. "They're in the dining room right now. We can go join them and piss England off just by existing, if you like." He begins to rise from his seat, but abandons the charade of seeking out his brother's company when France makes a reflexive sound of protest against the idea. Then, he grins and shakes his head. "That wasn't why I was asking. You're still looking a bit peaky, and I thought the exercise would do you good."

He's long held firm to the belief that a brisk walk is capable of remedying all ills, up to and including mortal wounds. Once, he had gutted France when they sparred together as children, torn him apart with his sword from navel to sternum, and the last thing France had seen before he lost consciousness was Scotland's pale, shocked face, tears welling his eyes for the first and only time in the many centuries they had known each other, both before and since.

He had – rather fancifully, in retrospect – imagined that when he awoke, he would find Scotland sitting at his bedside, clutching fretfully at his hand and salting his scars with fresh tears. Instead, Scotland had brusquely insisted that he get up, get moving, and that it would, indeed, 'do him good'.

France barely managed to take a step before passing out. When he came around two days later, Scotland had abandoned him to the care of his people and many years passed before they saw one another again.

"I doubt it," France says tightly. "It never has before."

"I'm not proposing we go on a hike," Scotland says, clearly misinterpreting France's reluctance as nothing more than laziness. "Just a stroll. Maybe even an amble."

"I'm not dressed for it," France says, gesturing towards his – very expensive – suit. "And I'm afraid I neglected to pack any hiking gear, so—"

"No problem." Scotland flashes him a sly-looking smile, and reaches down to pick something up from the floor by his feet, his hands hidden from view by the table until he triumphantly holds aloft an enormous, puffy blue quilted coat. "You can borrow my coat. And Wales has lent you his boots." These, too, he waves in the air. "He's got wee pixie feet, so they'll be a bit small for you, but they should be okay for a little while."

France groans and lets his head fall back down into his hands again. "You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

"Well, I won't pick you up and _force_ you to come with me, but I am fully prepared to be annoyingly persistent about it."

It's no idle threat. When Scotland has set his mind to something, dug in his heels deeply enough over it, he might as well become an immovable object, and France has battered himself bloody against the stone wall of his stubborn will countless times to no avail. He hasn't the heart – or the stomach – to even make an attempt at such today.

"Fine," he says petulantly, exasperated by his own cowardice. "I suppose I could spare ten minutes or so."  
-

* * *

-  
France's borrowed coat is thick enough that he feels as though he's been wrapped in a duvet from his knees to the underside of his chin. The rest of him, left cruelly exposed to the elements, is stinging from the cold by the time they reach the road at the end of the hotel's driveway.

"It's freezing," he informs Scotland.

"It's _October_ , _An Fhraing_ ," Scotland says incredulously, as though the autumnal month should somehow negate the frigid temperature. Maybe it does for him, as he seems unaffected by the iciness of the air despite his own jacket being flimsy and unpadded. "It barely even qualifies as _chilly_. I think the wind's pretty—"

"If you say 'bracing', I will turn around and go straight back to the hotel."

"Invigorating," Scotland finishes with an infuriatingly smug grin. "It'll get your blood pumping; help work the rest of the alcohol out of your system."

He pauses to scan the heathered wilderness that lies on the other side of the road, and then points towards a small, rocky promontory in the middle distance. "We'll walk out to that and back," he says.

"That's _miles_ away, _Écosse_ ," France says, horrified.

"Half a mile, if that," Scotland scoffs. "And it's practically flat all the way there. Like I said, it's just a stroll."

In their youth, France had joined Scotland many times on what he had promised would be 'pleasant strolls'. Without exception, they had turned out to be hours-long trials of endurance which involved far more clambering over treacherous terrain and wading through bogs and streams than walking. Out of some childish need to impress Scotland with his grit and determination, France had trudged along after him in silence the first few times this deception had occurred. In later years, he trudged and complained. By the twelfth century, he had learnt his lesson, grown a spine, and refused to accompany Scotland out of doors unless it was clear that there would be some point to the excursion beyond simply walking.

The pain of those memories has dulled over the intervening years, however, and France's strength of conviction has apparently dwindled along with it.

When Scotland says, "Look, if you're really not feeling up to it, we can head back," the offer does not inspire thankfulness but rather bristling indignation at the placatory tone of his voice, and he feels almost compelled to say, "I'll be fine; let's go," despite himself.

In the past, Scotland had made no attempt to compensate for France's shorter stride, and would quickly outpace him, leaving France lagging behind him, sweating, panting, and struggling to keep up.

Now, he seems to be deliberately curtailing each step, his movements stiff-legged and awkward, and whenever France's breathing becomes slightly laboured – because their route is certainly not flat, despite Scotland's claims, and there's no path to speak of over the stony, pitted ground – he stops for a while and pretends interest in some scrubby little plant or tuft of grass that looks, to France's eye, no different to any of its neighbours.

Or, perhaps, there is no pretence. As a child, he had been fascinated with the mundane, or even unpleasant, aspects of the natural world that France had personally been happy to overlook: chunks of lustreless grey stone and the bugs with far too many legs that scuttled beneath them; stunted plants with waxy leaves and drab flowers; and the disconcertingly fleshy mushrooms that sprouted inside the corpses of dead trees after it rained.

One particular patch of earth seems to have him bewitched now, and he keeps gently sifting through the soil, gravel and moss with the tips of his fingers even after France has managed to catch his breath again. Eventually, he makes a soft, satisfied sound and picks something up, closing his hand around it as he stands back up out of his crouch.

"What have you found?" France asks, as much in a bid to distract himself from the worrying growing numbness of his extremities as out of interest.

Scotland's cheeks, already lightly flushed thanks to the wind, grow even ruddier. "It's nothing really," he says quickly. "Just a stone that caught my eye."

"You still collect them?" France asks. Scotland used to hoard such things like treasures – not just stones, but beetle carapaces, snail shells, oddly shaped pieces of wood and the like – and, once or twice, had presented some of them to France with great pomp and circumstance, as though they were a gift that equalled France's own of wine.

"Aye," Scotland says, sounding a little sheepish. "Sort of, but I've done a few courses – an Earth Sciences degree with the Open University – so I like to think I'm a bit more discerning about it nowadays."

"And what catches a discerning geologist's eye?"

Scotland hesitates, his fingers tightening a fraction, as if unwilling to reveal his prize. He does finally relent, though, and presses the stone into France's waiting hand.

It's been worn round and smooth, and is a dark enough grey as to be almost black, save for a scattering of translucent specks strewn across its surface that glitter as they catch the light. The heft of it, the way it fits snugly into the hollow of France's cupped palm – and the faint trace of Scotland's warmth it still holds – feels oddly comforting somehow, and without thinking France asks, "Can I keep it?"

Scotland doesn't answer for so long that France thinks he must have offended him with the question, or else he had grown so weary of watching France inspect the stone that he'd wandered off to restart their walk without him.

When he looks up, though, Scotland is staring at him, frozen wide-eyed and open-mouthed, only stirring into some semblance of life when France calls his name.

"What?" he says, blinking rapidly as though waking from a daze.

"Can I keep it?" France repeats. "Or do you want it for your collection?"

"Naw," Scotland says. "You can have it. It's just... just a piece of granite, I've got plenty. Please… Please keep it."

Even though he sounds untroubled by this decision, Scotland still turns his back on France whilst France slips the stone into his pocket, as if he can't bear to watch him do so. He walks a few steps away, his shoulders held unnaturally high and stiff, and then tilts his head back to look up at the sky. After a moment's silent contemplation, he says, "I don't like the look of those clouds, but if we set off now, we should be able to make it back to the hotel before it starts to rain."  
-

* * *

-  
They don't.


	7. 6 Year Old Whisky

France wrings as much water out of his hair as he can, spares a moment to cast a longing look at his bed and its thick, inviting – albeit slightly fusty – duvet, but then dutifully changes out of his sopping trousers and socks.

But the dry clothes don't help, nor does standing pressed close to his room's one, lukewarm radiator: his skin still prickles with goosebumps, he can't stop shivering, and his knees ache like a cracked tooth, as though the cold has sunk so deeply into him that it has settled in the marrow of his bones.

When he eventually manages to wrench himself away from the paltry comfort of the radiator to join Scotland, who had apparently been standing sentinel outside his door all the while, he tells him, "I don't think I'll ever be warm again."

The answering roll of Scotland's eyes is remarkably restrained, considering. "I'm sure you'll be fine," he says. "We just got a little damp; I doubt you need to start worrying about hypothermia setting in quite yet."

 _A little damp_ , he says, when his own trousers are sodden and clinging close to the thick lines of his thighs and calves, and his hair is so heavily saturated with water that it has been weighted into submission, lying flat against his scalp for the first time in France's recollection. Ever since Scotland had finally cut off the braids he had stubbornly persisted in wearing in his youth, decades after the fashion for them had passed, France had longed to bring the same sort of order to it: whether by brush or comb and sheer determination, or by grease, or oil, or, later, pomade.

Now, he discovers he doesn't particularly care for the look of it. It makes Scotland appear too much unlike himself, and doesn't suit him at all.

The urge to run his fingers through Scotland's hair and restore it to its usual state of spiky disarray is as unexpected as it is unwelcome, but also, thankfully, ephemeral and easily dismissed. Scotland has never taken kindly to being touched, and France's hands are shaking too violently for the task, besides. He holds them out towards Scotland in demonstration.

"Some of us aren't quite as _hardy_ as you," he says. "See?"

Scotland's gaze softens, and he mutters, "Christ," under his breath. "Well, okay, I know something that might be able to fix that. And" – he adds, before France has even finished opening his mouth to remonstrate – "it doesn't involve any walking. Just the next best thing."  
-

* * *

-  
"Sorry about this," Scotland says as he joins France at the table they had secured in the bar. "The whisky here's no better than the wine. The selection's shite, and _that_ is the best I could do, unfortunately."

France peers at the glass Scotland passes to him, and then gives its contents a cautious sniff. It looks and smells no different to any other whisky – or, indeed, whiskey – he's ever been driven by circumstance or desperation to drink before.

"How can you tell?" he asks.

"The same way you do with your wine, I imagine," Scotland says. "Visual analysis." He holds his own glass up to the light, and pronounces it: "Too dark, given the age." He swirls the glass, then sniffs the whisky, just as France had done, though he inhales its scent far deeper. "Then nose. This definitely smells sweet, like caramel, so that's probably been used to colour the whisky and make it look older than it is.

"And finally taste." He takes a small sip from the glass, and grimaces. "Undertones of antiseptic. Aye, it's definitely pretty crap."

France is surprised, and also a little impressed. Given the speed with which Scotland normally drinks alcohol, he wouldn't have thought him capable of lingering over any drink long enough to savour it. "I didn't realise you were a connoisseur," he says.

Scotland chuckles. "I wouldn't call myself that, and I'm certainly not an expert, but I do go on tasting tours occasionally." He gestures towards France's glass. "Give it a try."

And France _does_ try, swirling the whisky around his mouth as he would if it were wine, but it's far too potent, and all he can perceive is the false heat of it when he swallows it down and it scorches his tongue and the back of his throat.

"It's too strong," he has to admit. "I can't taste anything."

Scotland looks aghast, but it quickly becomes apparent that it is not the inadequacy of France's palate that has horrified him.

"Fucking hell, _An Fhraing_ ," he breathes. "Your hands are practically _blue_."

"I did tell you I was cold," France reminds him, shrugging off the observation.

"Aye, but I thought you were exaggerating. Jesus." In the blink of an eye, he's taken France's glass from him, set it aside, and captured France's left hand between both of his own. "Come here."

"What are you doing, _Écosse_?" France asks, flexing his fingers experimentally, testing Scotland's hold. Scotland tightens it in response to the movement.

"Warming you up," he says gruffly. "I used to do it all the time when we were weans, remember?"

France does remember, and he remembers, too, that Scotland was never very gentle about it and chafed his hands until they burned worse than the cold did. He had endured the rough treatment for years, because such prolonged skin to skin contact between them was a vanishingly rare occurrence otherwise, but whatever small, dubious pleasure he took from it did pall in time, and then all that was left was the pain.

Now, however, Scotland's touch is much more tentative, warming rather than scalding as he slowly rubs France's trapped hand between his palms.

"Back in the days that I didn't have the good sense to wear gloves," France says.

Scotland had made him some, after France started refusing his offers of aid entirely even when his hands had grown numb and were so frozen through that they felt like chunks of ice clumsily tied to the ends of his arms. They were beautiful, made from finely stitched leather and lined with rabbit fur. France had worn them until their seams split and they fell into scraps.

"You mean _these_ days?" Scotland's own smile is fleeting, and soon replaced by a frown. "I should have thought to bring you a pair. Your fingers are like icicles."

As he slides his hand down their length, France's fingertips catch against the calluses that pepper the breadth of his palm. Astonished, he twists his wrist, breaking Scotland's grip for long enough that he can run the pad of his thumb across the patches of rough skin. He can scarcely believe it, but the pattern they form seems to be a familiar one.

"Do you still practice with the sword?" he asks.

Scotland must have been taken aback by the question, as it takes him a long while to reply. "Not as often as I'd like to," he says. "I don't really have anyone to spar with anymore. England thinks he's too _civilised_ for it nowadays, Wales was never any good with a sword, and North likes to pretend he doesn't know how to fight with one, even though I trained him the same as the other two. Most of these" – he swipes his own thumb across his palm, following the same path that France's had traced – "are from golf. Or rugby. I play sometimes, with Wales."

"And, all these years, I thought you both hated the game." Scotland winces, doubtless embarrassed to be reminded of his admission yesterday that he and his brother had been _hiding themselves away_ during Six Nations games, rather than avoiding them due to disinterest. "Do you play for a team?"

"Wales does. I just fill in every so often if they're down a man for a match or whatever. I am on a football team, though, with some of the lads from my local."

"I envy you for that," France says with a sigh.

"I wouldn't," Scotland says, shaking his head. "We're not very good."

France laughs. "Even so, I presume you get to play more often than I do. I rarely find the time for it, except during conferences like this."

"Aye, England mentioned that you usually have a bit of a kickabout after meetings and the like. I brought my kit, but—"

"Well, isn't this cosy," England cuts in, drifting towards their table like a foul, intrusive smell.

Scotland's back stiffens, and his fingers unfold from their close curl around France's, and France assumes it's a prelude to him letting go entirely. But he doesn't. Instead, he begins to rub France's hand in the same, leisurely rhythm as before they got distracted by talk of sword-fighting and rugby.

"I'm just helping _An Fhraing_ warm up," he says without looking up at his brother. "We got drenched whilst we were out walking earlier."

England goggles at France. "You were _walking_? In this weather?"

"It wasn't raining when we set out," Scotland says.

"And fresh air is the best cure for a hangover, or so I'm told," France adds.

England's eyes flicker between them, searching their faces, France suspects, for some sign of either mockery or deceit. Scotland keeps his head bowed down, but France meets England's gaze levelly, his expression carefully neutral.

"Fine," England huffs out at length, clearly accepting of if not – judging by his scowl – satisfied by Scotland's explanation. "But hurry it up. I still need your help setting up the conference room for the discussion session this afternoon."

Brother duly admonished and instructed, France expects England to waft away the way he came again, but he doesn't. He takes the chair next to Scotland's, half-turned in the seat so that his back is towards him, and stares fixedly at the painting of morose sheep being snowed upon that's hung on the wall behind the table.

Scotland glances up at France through his lowered lashes, and his crooked smile and the soft squeeze he gives France's fingers seem to be offered in apology for his brother's presence.

He breathes out sharply through his nose, and then says, "Other hand."

France places his right in Scotland's left, pressed palm to palm. When Scotland begins chafing it, England turns even further away from them, until he's seated sideways in his chair. He crosses his legs at the ankle, and starts bouncing his feet impatiently. The pointed tap-tap-tap of his heel against the floor is the only sound to break the silence that grows between them. It stretches, deepens, and would have doubtless have become uncomfortable had France not been determined to ignore both it and England.

Scotland obviously finds it more unnerving, as he eventually cracks and says to England, "I thought you were going to arrange a little football tournament or something this week. Have you given up on the idea?"

"No," England says to the snow-covered sheep, "I've just been waiting for the weather to clear up. It's supposed to be fine tomorrow, though, so we should hopefully be able to get the first round in then."

"I hope you've brought some shorts," Scotland says to France in an undertone.

His undertone is, however, louder than most people's overtones, and there's no chance of England failing to hear to the comment. He makes a disgusted noise in response to it, practically gagging, and then spits out, "Jesus Christ. Can't you at least wait until the two of you are on your own."

"What the…" Scotland eyes the stiff line of his brother's shoulders, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, and his own colour quickly rises to match it. "So we can _play football_. He was just saying… For fuck's sake, England, you know I didn't mean anything else by it. I would never…"

Scotland's fingers tense, clawing spasmodically and grinding down hard against France's knuckles, and then he lets France's hand drop like a stone, as though it has soiled him somehow and he can't bear to endure their contact even a second longer.

Once, France would have been – and frequently _was_ – insulted by such behaviour on Scotland's part, but he's long enough inured by now that he's mostly immune to it, and also well-prepared for the way Scotland's gaze skims past him, wary and uncertain, to settle instead on England.

"Okay, you should be safe from frostbite, at least," he says, keeping his eyes averted as he gets to his feet. "Come on, you." He kicks the back legs of England's chair so violently that he almost unseats his brother. "Let's go get this room sorted out, then."

He stalks out of the bar without a backward glance, but England hesitates before following him just long enough to profess himself, "Sorry for breaking up the party."

He doesn't even try to sound contrite when saying such things anymore, and even if he could still trouble himself to make the effort, the malicious twist of his lips would have given him away, regardless.

"I wouldn't worry yourself about it, _Angleterre_ ," France says, patting England's hand with equally feigned sympathy. "I imagine it would have broken up of its own accord soon enough, anyway."

Scotland's departure was, in fact, surprisingly long overdue, seeing as though both of France's hands had long since warmed through.


	8. Fi-ive Pou-ound Note!

France had begun work on his own presentation a little over two months ago, immediately after he received confirmation that his suggestion for its topic had been accepted by the conference committee. He finished it two weeks later, and set it aside for two more weeks after that, so he could read through it with fresh eyes and better recognise whatever editing it might require.

After four rounds of corrections and amendments it was, he'd thought, as close to perfect as it was going to get, and he'd spent the three weeks that remained to him reading it aloud to his empty living room whenever he found himself in possession of a free hour to devote to the task.

He'd started the conference confident – just as he always was at such functions – that his presentation would be informative and engaging, and his delivery of it would at least be smooth, if not faultless.

Normally, on the evening before he was due to present, he'd read through his notes just once to refresh his memory and then would not think of them again until morning.

This evening, however, he stumbles several times during his readthrough, his flow broken by wording that he had hitherto failed to notice somehow was either clunky or a little ambiguous. He makes the necessary revisions, but that only serves to make his problem all the worse, because whenever he reaches one of the new phrases he's added, his brain persists in filling them in with the old, and he has to pause and reorder his thoughts before he is able to continue.

It does not bode well for his performance tomorrow – his eight o'clock slot was already ill-omened enough on its own – and he decides to forego his planned dinner excursion to Ambleside in favour of ordering room service and staying in to practice his speech.

He recites it in front of the bathroom mirror in lieu of an audience, and forces himself to start over again from the beginning every time he fumbles his words, looks too long at his notes instead of making eye contact with his own reflection, or rakes his hand back through his hair: a nervous tic he has long been aware of, and horrified by, but has never before afflicted him when faced with something so innocuous as the prospect of public speaking.

It's closing in on nine o'clock when he finally manages to make it through to the end of his presentation, and his throat and eyes are both desert dry and scratchy, doubtless irritated by having spent so much time cooped up in his dusty, unaired room.

He needs to get out of it for a while. Neither a belated trip into Ambleside nor an _actual_ stroll appeals, as it's still pouring with rain despite England's earlier assurance that clement weather was on its way. Of the limited possibilities at hand, only the hotel bar remains.

France had had no intention of visiting the place tonight, but reasons that, by now, it will be so crowded that his chances of running into any nation in particular are very low in the absence of a deliberate effort on his part to seek them out.

He reasoned wrong.

Perhaps due to the dubious quality of the drinks on offer, the bar is practically deserted, and as soon as France walks through the bar's door, he has a clear line of sight to Scotland, who is sitting alone on the same sofa he and his brothers had occupied the previous night. Thankfully, he also appears to be thoroughly absorbed in a book, and France is able to skirt past him unnoticed as he heads to the bar itself and then on towards the table at which Germany and Prussia are seated.

Prussia seems out of sorts, uncharacteristically quiet and subdued, which leaves France entirely at his brother's mercies. And Germany is far too interested in talking about France's upcoming presentation for his liking, returning again and again to the subject no matter how forcefully France tries to steer him away from it.

As all he wants to do is forget about the damn thing for a while, he excuses himself on the pretence of needing to discuss some pressing matter or other with Spain, and then flees to take solace in his and Italy's companionship. Their conversation is gratifyingly free from mentions of conference business entirely, but all too soon they announce their treacherous intentions to turn in early for the night, and shortly thereafter abandon France, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the room and completely unshielded when Scotland does happen to glance up from his book and catch his eye.

He smiles, seeming pleased to see him there, and France finds himself drifting towards him without ever being aware of having made a conscious decision to do so.

Scotland smile grows even broader as he draws near. "You've decided to stop avoiding me, then?" he says.

"I wasn't avoiding you," France lies on reflex. "I was…" He casts his gaze out, searching for any inspiration that could help him invent some reasonable fiction to explain his actions, but his eyes just return time and again to Scotland, inexorably drawn towards the abhorrent… _garment_ he is currently wearing. "Avoiding your jumper," therefore feels to be the only natural conclusion to the sentence he had left hanging.

Scotland's laughter sounds to be shocked out of him, explosive and overloud. "My jumper?" he echoes wonderingly. "What's wrong with it?"

"What's _right_ with it, _Écosse_?" Everything about it is a lurid assault on good taste: the chunky, uneven knit; its eye-searingly bright yellow colour, which makes Scotland's complexion look sallow; the strange, jagged shape emblazoned upon it, which France can only assume is meant to be an animal of some kind, seeing as though it appears to have a tail.

"I like it. I think it's jaunty," Scotland says, peering down at his chest with evident puzzlement. "But, if it offends you _that_ much, I'll take it off." He struggles to do so, as it appears that the neck is a little too tight as well as misshapen. By the time he has managed to wrestle it up and over his head, his face is puce and his hair is standing straight up from his head, practically crackling with static. "See, it's gone." He balls the jumper up and drops it behind the sofa. "You're safe now."

It seems churlish, then, to make any similar sorts of complaints about his equally hideous T-shirt – which is lime green, fraying at the collar, and sports a cracked transfer of a boggle-eyed cartoon Loch Ness Monster – or to refuse the implicit invitation Scotland extends when he pats the cushions beside him.

France sits down as directed, and Scotland closes his book, placing it, face down, on the table next to the sofa.

"Another Rankin?" France guesses, but Scotland shakes his head.

"Pratchett," he says. "I'm in the middle of my biannual Discworld reread. I'm getting through it far too quickly, though; once I've finished it, I'll have nothing else left to read."

"You can borrow the book I brought with me, if you like."

Scotland screws up his nose in disgust. "Thanks, but no thanks, _An Fhraing_ ," he says. "I don't much fancy reading about someone else's existential angst at the moment."

"I never said that that was what it was about," France protests.

"You didn't need to. I could see it in your eyes."

"How so?"

"You looked so relieved when I lent you that Rebus book. And from the way you grabbed at it" – Scotland mimes a lunging grasp of the sort France is certain he never made – "I could tell you were desperate for something that had an actual plot."

France cannot argue against that accusation, so he doesn't, and instead turns to his wine glass, letting their conversation lull as he drinks from it.

Scotland takes a sip of his whisky, tips his head to rest against the back of the sofa, and stares up at the ceiling as he says, "I'm sorry that England… Well, that he was being such a twat earlier. He's been in a vile mood recently. Viler than usual, even. And you know what he's like; he can't resist spreading it around."

"I'm used to it," France says, shrugging. "I barely even notice anymore."

"That's good. And I'm sorry that I…" Scotland takes a deep breath in, then exhales slowly without saying another word. No apology for his own behaviour is forthcoming, but that comes as no surprise to France. The intimation that Scotland realises that he even has something to apologise for on that score is more than he ever expected, anyhow, and more than he's ever received in the past, besides.

"Water under the bridge," France thus assures him.

"Grand." Given their respective angles, France can't quite make out Scotland's expression, but the warm tone of his voice suggests he is smiling once more. "Anyway, you don't have to worry about him sticking his oar in tonight. He's dragged North off into town, and said they wouldn't be back till late."

"And _Pays de Galles_ went with them?" France concludes, as it seems the most likely explanation for Scotland having no company other than a book

"Naw, but he pissed off over there a couple of hours back," Scotland says, waving his hand towards the far corner of the bar, where there is a small table that France had somehow overlooked when he scanned the room earlier, tucked behind a large potted plant, whose broad, yellowing leaves hide the majority of it from easy view. "Abandoned me for Grumpy fucking Italy again. And, before you say anything, whatever he's playing at, I'm sure it isn't _that_. Wales has a _thing_ for… He only ever dates humans."

Although Wales and Romano are largely obscured from view, too, it's very obvious even from what little France _can_ see of them that they are leant close together once more, and that Wales is clutching at one of Romano's hands.

"And I'm still certain you're wrong, I'm afraid," France says. "So much so, that I think I may have to join that bet you made with _Irlande du Nord_."

It would be, he's convinced, the easiest money he has ever made.  
-

* * *

-  
Whilst France's presentation was not as polished as it could have been – or as he would have liked – he had still managed to forge his way through to the end of it, regardless, making only one serious misstep along the way; one harried moment wherein he lost his place in the midst of the most heavily revised section of his notes, and forgot what he was about to say.

It had, he hoped, been a short enough moment to have passed by largely unnoticed, especially as he'd reached for his glass of water at the very start of it, pretending a need to pause and wet his mouth in a bid for distraction as he untangled the words one from another in his mind.

Scotland, for one, certainly doesn't seem to have found anything lacking in France's performance, as he hangs back whilst the rest of the audience troops out in order to tell him: "Good presentation. I feel like I've learnt everything about legumes that I'll ever need to know."

"And more than you ever wanted to, no doubt," France says with a grin.

Scotland briefly returns it. "That too," he says, and then his face falls. He looks over at the conference room door with what appears to be deep longing, but gives his head a brisk shake as though to collect himself before thrusting a crumpled piece of paper into France's hand. "Here. I owe you this."

It's a five pound note. "What—?"

"I was wrong, you were right," Scotland says in a sudden rush. "About Wales, I mean. I'm sure neither of us wants to dwell on the details, so suffice it to say that we're sharing a room, I walked in at exactly the wrong time, my eyes are still burning, and I never want to talk about it again, okay?"

He looks mortified, though doubtless no more so than either Wales or Romano are, and France feels a little guilty to be profiting from their combined misfortune in any way. He tries to give the money back to Scotland, but he refuses to accept it.

"You earnt that," he says.

"Hardly," France scoffs. "And it doesn't feel right to take it now."

"Please, I want you to keep it," Scotland says. "If it'll make you feel any better about it, you can use it to buy me a drink tonight."

"We have a tab at the bar, _Écosse_."

"Aye, but not in Ambleside. I know you haven't had chance to get into town yet, and England said there's a really nice Italian place there, so I thought…" Scotland stares down at his feet, and drums his fingers against the tops of his thighs, tapping out a rapid, arrhythmic beat. "I've booked a table for tonight. Would you like to join me for dinner?"


	9. 4-Star Meal

Of one thing France is very certain: this evening will not be a date.

They may have become estranged, drifted slowly but inexorably apart over the centuries, but, in some ways, France still knows Scotland very well indeed. Although he had sometimes seemed as though he might welcome greater intimacy – the gazes that lingered just a beat too long, the easy confidence of his rare touches, the way he leant in close on the night their alliance was sealed, looking at France with the stars reflected bright in his eyes, breath hitching in his throat, and his entire body trembling as though there were some vast energy building deep inside him that he could scarcely contain – the instant France pushed for more, Scotland moved even further away from him.

France's flirtations were always met with blank incomprehension, and any touch he returned caused Scotland to either freeze or flee. His behaviour over last few days has proved that in this, at least, he has not changed, and his offer had doubtless been exactly what it appeared to be on the surface: an invitation to eat together. No more, no less.

So, France does not allow himself to hope otherwise, and takes care to be careless as he prepares for their dinner, picking a clean shirt and trousers to wear at random, foregoing his usual considerations as to whether they complement either each other or the current shade of his complexion, and leaving his hair untouched beyond a quick comb through with his fingers to tease out the worst of the day's tangles.

His choice was a wise one, it transpires, as Scotland is definitely not at his refined best when France joins him in hotel foyer. His suit is the same one – his only one? – that he has been wearing for rest of conference, and he looks rumpled and tired, his back sagging and shoulders slumping even lower than they normally do.

"I thought I'd drive, if you don't mind," he says nonetheless. "If I don't run my car at least once a day, the battery tends to go flat."

France assures him that he has no issues with that arrangement, but quickly comes to rue his decision when Scotland ushers him towards an ancient Ford Escort, mouldering in a darkened corner of the car park. There are deep scratches gouged out of its mismatched paintwork, the wheel arches are mottled with patches of rust, the driver's side door is badly dented, and the bumper is held on by…

"Is that duct tape?!"

"Aye," Scotland says, " the bumper fell off a couple of weeks back, but I haven't had chance to take it into a garage yet. Look, I know it looks like shite, but it runs okay. It got me down here in one piece, and it passed its MOT last month."

France can only assume that a bribe must have been involved in that decision somehow, but is willing enough to take Scotland at his word that he edges closer to the car, albeit with great caution, taking small, light-footed steps for fear that any hasty move on his part might cause it to lose its clearly tenuous grip on cohesion and fall to pieces.

Scotland hurries ahead of him, reaching for the passenger-side door.

"Here, let me get that for you," he says, in what seems to be a charming – if archaic – act of chivalry before he explains that: "The door sticks, and there's a knack to getting it open." He yanks hard at the handle several times until the door finally swings open, shedding a small cloud of paint chips and rust as it does so, and then gestures for France to take a seat. "Sorry, the little light doesn't work anymore."

That, France thinks, is no great loss. There is an odd, frowsty smell in the car, reminiscent of his hotel room, and it's probably for best that can't see what's causing it.

Before he can mount any objections to the stench, the broken spring digging into the small of his back, or the disquieting strained creak the seatbelt makes as he pulls it across his chest, Scotland hops into the driver's seat, starts the engine, and the din that ensues renders any attempt at conversation momentarily impossible.

It sounds like a pack of angry wolves have taken up residence beneath the bonnet, growling and snarling at one another, and the entire car shudders to the accompaniment of a disconcerting rattling noise emanating from somewhere in the region of the exhaust.

"It just needs to warm up a bit!" Scotland bellows over the racket.

It seems to warm up _too_ much during the brief journey between the car park and the end of the driveway, and the sharp, acrid note of burning rubber soars above the foetid, background stench of the cab. Scotland appears unfazed by it, however, and doesn't even slow before pulling out onto the road. They take make the turn on what feels to be two wheels, and then Scotland – forgoing all good sense, and, surely, fighting against whatever survival instincts he might possess – puts his foot down hard on the accelerator.

The engine howls in response and the car surges forward with a stomach-churning lurch, heading on what appears to be a collision course for the wall that's illuminated in brief flashes by the diffuse glow of the car's weak headlights as it judders towards it.

France makes reflexive grab for door handle at his side, clinging on for grim death, as Scotland hauls the car around the corner that the wall borders at the last possible second.

Scotland looks towards him. "What's up?" he asks, sounding genuinely concerned and inexplicably puzzled.

 _Keep your eyes on the road!_ rises to the front of France's mouth, but he swallows it back in favour of the more politic: "Do you think you're, perhaps, driving a little too fast for the road conditions?"

Scotland shakes his head. "I drive much worse roads than this, much faster than this back home and I've never crashed."

France does not find that particularly reassuring. "So, the dent in your door just happened spontaneously, did it?"

"Someone reversed into me in a Tesco's car park. If there was any justice in the world, I'd have a hundred year no claims bonus." Scotland snorts. "I don't think you looked this worried even when we were about to go into battle."

In battle, Scotland would guard him unflaggingly, as solid and stalwart as any shield, not hurl him into danger with a cavalier disregard for either his nerves or continued bodily integrity.

"There was no danger of me crashing into a wall at" – France risks a glance at the speedometer – "eighty kilometres an hour back then."

"And there isn't now!" Scotland insists. "But, if it'll make you feel better, I'll slow down." He eases off the accelerator, if only barely. "And you could try closing your eyes. North always does when I'm driving; he says it helps."

Northern Ireland is clearly a very sensible young man. France follows his lead. Whilst it does nothing to block out the rattling, or the burning smell, or the erratic veering of the car, they're not nearly as troubling when he can't see random bits of scenery suddenly looming very close and ominously solid in front of windscreen.

Though the drive never becomes any more smooth or quiet – despite Scotland's promises – it is at least short, as Scotland's recklessness and apparent death wish shaves almost ten minutes off their journey time, cutting it in half.

Nevertheless, it was still long enough that France's legs feel weak and shaky from being braced so hard against the floor as he struggled to keep his balance whilst Scotland undertook his incautious swerves around hairpin bends and abrupt stops at traffic lights, and he almost falls out of the car door when Scotland opens it for him after they've parked.

Scotland places a hand at his shoulder to support his stumbling efforts to regain his balance, and then offers him a cigarette from a freshly opened packet. "You look like you need one," he says.

France accepts it with gratitude, and smokes at a leisurely pace, the long-ingrained habit of drawn-out inhalations and exhalations even more soothing than the nicotine.

Scotland smokes his own with voracious appetite, not pausing for long enough to take a clean breath between drags on it, and he's got through a second and begun pacing impatiently back and forth beside the car before France has even finished his first.

"You ready?" he asks then, but doesn't wait for France to answer before marching off down the street, making no effort, this time, to match his stride to France's, who has to break into an undignified trot to keep up with him.

Thankfully, the restaurant is only a short jog away, and France's breath has barely even shortened when they reach it, though his cheeks, he suspects, are likely a very unflattering shade of flustered red.

Scotland doesn't look his way long enough to notice, keeping his gaze firmly trained ahead as he talks to the hostess and then follows her to their table, and by the time he looks up from the menu she'd handed him, the heat has safely bled away from France's face once more.

"Looks nice," he says, sweeping his hand out in an expansive manner which encompasses both the menu and the establishment as a whole.

France had had his trepidations about the venue, given that it was chosen on England's recommendation, but on first impressions it does appear to be closer to his own tastes than England's normal haunts, which tended towards pubs that served food as a sideline, and had permanent two-for-one offers on all their dishes.

Unlike them, it's clean, tastefully decorated, and well-lit, and the few other tables that are already occupied seat couples and small groups, whose quiet chatter blends unobtrusively with the muted, inoffensive music drifting across the room from some unseen source. It's far from upmarket, but seems perfectly pleasant, which France hopes bodes well for the quality of its food.

"Here," Scotland says, handing France the wine list. "I'll leave you to pick the wine. I don't know much about it."

"You used to," France says. Wine had been an integral part of their alliance – claret, in particular, was its bloodstream – and Scotland had partaken of it with as much enthusiasm as any of his people.

"Aye, well, I lost my taste for it somewhere along the way," Scotland says with a thin smile.

"If you'd prefer to get something else, then—"

"It's all right, I don't _dislike_ it," Scotland is quick to assure him. "And this going to be the kind of meal you've got to get wine with, I reckon. Order whatever you like."

He turns to his menu again as France peruses the wine list, glaring at it as though personally offended by something written there.

"I take it you're not impressed by what's on offer," France asks once he's made his selection from the skimpy range of wines listed, mimicking Scotland's scowl when he looks up at him in question.

"Naw, it all looks good." He shakes his head ruefully. "I was just thinking about how much Italian food I'm likely going to be eating in the future. That thing with Dyl and Lovino? Apparently, it wasn't just a moment of madness, and they're going out now."

His doleful expression is so ridiculously exaggerated that it makes France laugh despite himself. "He's hardly an ogre you seem to think he is, Alasdair," he says. "And, believe it or not, he can actually be quite sweet sometimes."

"Sweet?" Scotland echoes derisively. "Whenever I've talked to him, he's had a face like a smacked arse and never stopped complaining about anything and everything. We've already got one of those types in the family, we really don't need another"

"He can be somewhat of an acquired taste, I admit, but I promise you he does improve on closer acquaintance."

Scotland still looks unconvinced, but any further attempts on France's part to persuade him that his brother's romantic choices are not the calamity he believes them to be are curtailed by the arrival of a waiter at their table, who is followed shortly thereafter by their wine and then their entrées.

Scotland applies himself to both with a determined vigour that does not allow pause for words – save for a brief disagreement with France over the relative degree of smokiness of his wine choice – despite his seeming distaste at the prospect of Italian food earlier.

All of France's conversational sallies during their main course and dessert are similarly shot down with curt, monosyllabic answers, and he begins to wonder if he had misunderstood the situation entirely. Whilst he might have been clear-headed enough to realise Scotland had not asked him out on a date, he never once considered that his invitation might just have been issued out of politeness, and Scotland would actually have preferred to dine alone.

When their postprandial coffee and tea are brought out to the table, however, Scotland's whole demeanour changes. France hadn't noticed any stiffness in his expression or posture whilst they were eating, but the starkness of the change makes it obvious in retrospect. His entire body slumps, as though some invisible cords pulling his muscles taut have suddenly snapped, and he practically melts down into his chair, his long legs splaying out underneath the table. One of them comes to rest close to France's, their calves pressed lightly together. He must be aware of the contact, glancing though it is, but he doesn't attempt to move away from it.

And then he smiles, meeting France's eyes with a bold, uncharacteristic forthrightness, wets his lips and then asks him…

About his favourite football team. Certainly not a romantic choice in topic, but encouraging in its own, different way, as Scotland listens so intently to France's answers, asks so many questions afterwards, seems so eager to keep talking that France soon forgets to worry that his company might have been an unwelcome addition to Scotland's evening.

Their conversation wends its way through football onto rugby, and, following a brief digression around the subject of the Romano which once more concludes to the satisfaction of neither of them, and from there to Wales, then poetry, and eventually books they have both read, by which time France has finished his digestif, Scotland his second pot of tea.

He sets his cup aside, and then checks his watch for the first time, wincing at what he sees on its face. "Jesus," he hisses. "It's nearly ten o'clock. I'm surprised that we haven't chucked out on our ear yet. We should probably make a move."

"To a pub?" France guesses. "I do still owe you a drink."

"Naw," Scotland says, looking up from his watch and making direct eye contact with France once more. "I'd rather go back to the hotel."

He says each word with what sounds to be careful deliberation, and France's heart speeds up a little. "You would?"

"Aye." Scotland's smile turns apologetic. "I'm knackered. You'll have to buy me a drink the next time we're out."

And the next time they're out – if there ever is such an occasion – France will have to buy Scotland dinner, too, to repay him for his generosity tonight. Against France's protestations, he insists on paying for both of their meals, and then is equally adamant that France borrow his jacket to wear over his own when they step out of the restaurant and the sudden, biting chill of the night air makes France shiver.

He's always been solicitous about France's health, so France studiously avoids ascribing any deeper meaning to the gesture, or to the way Scotland's hands linger on his shoulders just a moment too long after he's conscientiously tucked the collar close around his neck.

Perhaps due to his tiredness, or the single glass of wine he drank at dinner, Scotland drives with careful consideration and deference to the speed limit on their return journey, and France has no need of his steadying influence at the end of it, though Scotland still hovers nearby as he disembarks from the car, poised ready to offer his assistance again if required.

He sticks just as close as they walk to the hotel, through the entrance, foyer, and all the way up to the foot of the stairs that lead to the guest rooms. There, he pauses, his gaze darting towards France's feet, then his own, and finally the stairs.

He stares at them for a long moment, and then turns towards France as he says, "Do you want…" His voice cracks as their gazes catch and briefly hold, and he swiftly looks away again. After taking a long, deep breath, he inclines his head in the direction of the bar, and finishes with: "Do you fancy a nightcap?"


	10. 3 Broken Ribs (Doled Out in His Honour)

Despite the hour, the substandard alcohol, the depressing décor, and every other glaring fault that had rightfully chased away its potential clientele the previous day, the hotel's bar swarming with nations again tonight.

Scotland navigates a path through the crowds separating them from the bar with ease, making judicious use of the skills that used to serve him so well on the battlefield: bobbing and weaving around their closely-packed bodies, his footwork surprisingly nimble.

France can only assume that his intimidating size and choleric resting expression – the harsh lines of which have a definite hint of incipient violence about them – secure them both prompt service at the bar, and shortly thereafter a table, though Scotland had done nothing more than stand quietly next to each.

The table is the same one Wales and Romano had shared before they retreated upstairs to consummate their burgeoning relationship, an association which is clearly not lost on Scotland, who glowers at the furniture as though it had been complicit in this betrayal. Once seated, he turns his unhappy moue towards the bottom of his pint glass, and gives it a far greater share of his attention than France, whose attempts at conversation go largely unanswered beyond the occasional disinterested grunt or apathetic shrug.

After ten minutes or so, France wearies of his efforts and falls silent, too. As the rosé he had been foolhardy enough to order offers no inducement to stay, either, he is on the verge of pleading a headache or exhaustion and heading for his bed, when Scotland scrambles clumsily up from his seat.

"I just need to go…" He waves his hand towards the other side of the bar in an impenetrable gesture which fails to explain anything. "Please… Please, just stay right here. I'll only be a minute."

He hurries away before France has chance to speak, effectively trapping him where he is for the moment, as he can hardly make his excuses when there's no-one to offer them to.

So, he sips his lacklustre wine, and whiles away his time reading through a leaflet about local tourist attractions that someone had left lying on the table – discarded, he imagines, in the spirit of horrified disgust, as it is unspeakably dull – until he hears someone sit down in the chair opposite his again. He looks up from tedious leaflet, and apology already forming on his lips, but it languishes there unspoken, because that _someone_ isn't Scotland, but England.

His face is florid, his shirt collar unbuttoned and tie askew, and when he leans across the table, France is engulfed in a cloud of alcohol fumes so potent that it makes his eyes water. He smells as though he's been attempting to pickle himself in beer rather than drinking it.

"Are you having a pleasant evening?" he asks, his accent slurring into Estuary as it always does when he's drunk and doesn't have the wherewithal to keep up the charade of RP. His expansive smile is sloppy and doesn't reach his eyes, which are hard and severe despite being bloodshot.

"I was, _Angleterre_ , before—"

" _Angleterre_?" England repeats, rolling the Rs in a mockingly exaggerated fashion. "What have I done to deserve that?"

"Do you want a list?" France crosses his arms over his chest, and meets England's accusatory glare equably. "Well, we can start with the odious room you booked me into for this week, if you like, and work up from there."

"Oh, so your room isn't quite as _fancy_ as you like? And I had to reschedule a couple of meetings?" England sneers at him. "Is that why you're so pissed off? After everything else we've ever done to one another, _that's_ what's lost me the privilege of my own fucking name."

It is, because England's behaviour has been so very petty these past few days, which makes France want to be just as petty in return. England has never brought out the best in him.

"Wasn't 'pissing me off' the whole point of it all? You should be pleased."

England ignores the question. "Well, at least you've got my brother to comfort you. That's what you've always wanted, isn't it?" He leans even further across table, weight resting against his clenched fists, and his voice drops low and sibilant. "Did you ever really want me, or was _having me_ just a way to get closer to him?"

"Of course it wasn't," France says without hesitation, because he always known that to be true, but perhaps…

Perhaps here and especially now he can admit, if only to himself, that there was some small part of him that had wanted to find out how Scotland would react to seeing them together.

For hundreds of years, he hadn't cared that they only saw each other at the point of a sword or down the barrel of gun, but the Great War changed that. The _front_ changed that, throwing them together once more, and France had discovered that couldn't practice his carefully cultivated indifference at close quarters.

At the start of the war, Scotland was as aloof as he'd ever been since their alliance dissolved, and even by the end of it, they'd hardly begun reforging the broken bonds of their lost friendship or anything of the like. But over the course of it, whilst they may not have smoked, drunk and laughed together as Scotland did with his brothers – finding whatever small comfort they could amongst the smoke, and blood, and _despair_ of it all – or so much as spoken much more than ten words at a time to each other, they did grow closer in a different way.

When the deep gouges that the trenches had torn through France's flesh began to fester, he had turned in desperation - because he didn't trust England to be gentle, didn't know Wales well enough to ask - to Scotland and begged for his help in cleaning them. And Scotland _had_ been gentle, and thorough at his work, and it seemingly sparked some remnant of his old protective instincts back into life.

For a short while, he was France's shield once more, guarding him from himself as much as the enemy. He cajoled France into eating even when he lacked the appetite for it, ordered him to sleep when he was nodding off on his feet, bathed his wounds and held him steady when France was weak and riven by the pain of them. Delirious, France had told him that he had lovely strong hands then, and Scotland had laughed, called him an idiot, but he didn't let go.

It had reawakened some measure of an ancient hunger in France – shameful, because he'd thought himself safely rid of it centuries back – and it didn't fade away at the war's end.

France had pursued England because he wanted to, wanted _him_ , no matter what he might choose to believe. But they could have met in Paris, in England's crumbling Buckinghamshire estate, a hotel in either of their own countries or beyond. They could have been discreet, and France could have kept his distance from Scotland just as he ought to have done.

They met most often in England's London home, though, and France had kissed him in the hallway, the living room, the kitchen, anywhere, in hindsight, anywhere that Scotland was most likely to witness them.

Truly, it hadn't been a conscious act at the time, but England clearly believes him a liar all the same. He scoffs, and says, "Don't think I didn't notice how you looked at him. Watched him. I'd expected you to try and get your claws into him the minute you left me."

And he's clearly rewritten that particular facet of their history together to better suit him, as is his habit. "You left me, _Angleterre_!"

"Only because I saw the writing on the wall, and wanted to jump before I was pushed." His expression darkens. "You never really gave up on him, did you? No matter what I thought… What I _duped_ myself into believing, you never stopped trying to get between the two of us. Trying to steal him away, just like you did with America."

"America?" France says, perplexed. "I haven't—"

"Yes, you bloody well have!" England's voice rings out stridently, forgetting to be subtle in his anger. "He told me so himself that you were together, after his… after his revolution. After all those years of dripping poison in his ear and turning him against me."

Another piece of rewritten history. "That ended centuries ago," France says, "and I assure you that neither America nor I have any interest in revisiting it now."

"That's what I thought about Scotland, and look how that's turned out." England scowls. "I don't trust you, Frog. I might have forgotten that for a few years there, but I remember it perfectly well now, and—"

He's interrupted by Scotland, whose return to the table is heralded by a shout of, "Shift your scrawny arse, Runt," and closely followed by a swift kick to the back of England's chair as soon as he moves into striking range.

England meets this ill-treatment with a syrupy smile, aimed at his brother.

"Oh, am I taking your place? Don't worry, it won't happen again," he says with cloyingly false sweetness. "I've finished with him now." He staggers to his feet, lurches towards Scotland, and then pokes at his shoulder with some force. "But not with you."

Scotland's eyes narrow warningly, and he bats England's finger aside with a casual swipe of his hand, as though he's swatting at a fly. "I think you've had too much to drink, _Sasainn_. You need to go upstairs right now and sleep it—"

"Don't you ' _Sasainn_ ' me, you bastard." England surges forward until his chest is pressed flush against Scotland's, and then he pushes himself up onto the balls of his feet, bringing his eyes almost on a level with his brother's. "And don't you dare act all high and mighty, like you're fucking… fucking above it all. I know what you've been up to."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Scotland says, frowning.

"Yes, you do," England insists. "You don't fool me, Scotland." He sniffs disdainfully. "I just can't understand why you're bothering to wine and dine him. You must know by now that he'll fuck anything that mo—"

Scotland punches him.


	11. 2 Bags of Frozen Peas

England throws his return punch whilst he's still reeling from Scotland's. It misses Scotland by a country mile, connecting instead with the wall behind his head. His second punch connects with Wales, who has hurried forward to interject himself between his brothers and beg them to step back and take a moment to cool off. Scotland immediately punches England again, sending him flying into Russia, almost knocking him off his feet from the force of the blow.

As so often happens, it devolves into an all-out brawl from there: every accidentally nudged shoulder or warning shove misinterpreted as an attack, and the fight swiftly cascades out across the crowd, nation after nation falling like dominoes to it and the excuse to thrash out centuries' old grudges and more recent insults with their fists rather than the more tactful – if much less satisfying – velvet glove of diplomacy.

But it's late, everyone's tired, drunk, and sloppy with it, and the fight is even more shambolic than usual as a consequence. Germany is quick to take command, too, calling out above the cacophony of smashing glass and snarled threats, in a voice of cool authority, that he is fully prepared to call their bosses if they don't stand down.

The spectre of revoked travel privileges and denied expense claims is a real and terrifying one, immediately calming to frayed tempers in a way no heartfelt pleas for intranational peace ever could be.

The fracas dies down to a scuffle, and shortly thereafter an embarrassed shuffling of feet and shame-faced apologies. Clutching at their heads and bruised extremities, most nations then limp off to their beds, avoiding each other's eyes. In the morning, it will be as if this entire, violent interlude never happened, and everyone will be back in conference mode, trading polite smiles and limp handshakes with their erstwhile combatants once more.

Soon, beyond France and Scotland, only England remains, lying, flat on his back, amongst the shattered wreckage of a table. Scotland helps him to his feet, dusts the worst of the splinters off his jumper, then holds him at arm's length by the shoulders and bends his mouth to England's ear.

England clearly takes exception to whatever he's saying at first, as his expression is murderous, and he stands stiffly in his brother's hold. He doesn't attempt to pull away, though, and, slowly but surely, his face and posture both relax, his knees buckling and back bowing ever lower until he loses his footing and pitches forward, his forehead striking hard against hollow of Scotland's throat. Scotland sighs, rests his chin against the top of his brother's head, and draws him closer for the span of a heartbeat, maybe two. Then, he slaps his back, hard and open-handed, a couple of times before once again ordering him to go to bed. England obeys him without protest this time, and shuffles meekly – and unsteadily - out of the bar.

As soon as he's disappeared from view, Scotland turns to France and tells him, "Whatever he said to you, I wouldn't take it to heart. He's completely pickled; probably didn't even know what he was saying. He should be okay now, though." His voice softens. "How about you? Are you all right? Your hand's a bit of a mess." He scoops up France's right hand with his left, and puckers his brow over his torn and bleeding knuckles, the skin there split by England's thick skull. "You should aim for his chin next time. He's got a glass jaw."

"I know," France says sharply, and he does, but he hadn't been thinking tactics, just swung for England on retaliatory instinct in the split second after England swung for him and missed. His unarmed combat skills may have improved over the centuries, just as he'd told Scotland, but he tends to forget every single one of them whenever England is involved. "He just took me by surprise."

"You're favouring your left leg," Scotland continues, his gaze slowly drifting down France's body. "Did you hurt it when you fell?"

France had hoped that Scotland hadn't noticed the undignified tumble he'd taken over an upturned chair, as well, but then Scotland had always watched him very closely in battle. "Perhaps," he concedes.

"It looks like you might have cracked your head, too," Scotland says, as his eyes complete their return journey to France's face. "It's hard to see in this light, though. Come on" – he loops his arm around France's – "let's get you up to your room."  
-

* * *

-  
France's knee throbs, his hand tingles, and the ribs on his left side feel to be bruised, if not cracked. It hurts to breathe, never mind move, so he stays perched on the end of his bed, exactly where Scotland had deposited him, and doesn't so much as twitch a muscle until Scotland returns from his search for some nebulously defined 'supplies', and he's forced to look up and acknowledge his presence.

"Here, the chef gave me these for you." Scotland produces two bags of frozen peas from his jacket pockets, and drops them onto the mattress beside France. "I thought I'd get an earful for kicking off that whole shitshow downstairs, but no-one on the staff seems to care about it. Couldn't do enough for me, actually."

"They were probably well prepared for it," France says, picking up the bags. He places one on his knee, and tucks the other under his arm, pressed close to his aching side. The chill of them numbs his skin in an instant. "Your boss will have written ahead of time to let them know that this sort of thing might happen. It normally does at some point during these meetings. They'll just add the damages on to our expenses, I imagine."

"Aye, I guess that's what they're planning on doing," Scotland says. "I even offered to pay for the table England broke, but they wouldn't hear a word of it. Good thing, too, because I'm down a hundred quid already this week."

"Now that you've lost your bet with _Angleterre_?" France winces sympathetically. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault," Scotland says. "And it was pretty much a pipe dream, anyway. I'm surprised we made it past the first day, to be honest." He takes a step back and away from France, his eye turning critical. "I really don't like the look of that cut. I'll go get…"

His words fade into unintelligibility as he retreats into the bathroom, muffled first by distance and then by the sound of a running tap. When he reappears, he's carrying a glass of water and mound of cotton wool, and he places both on the floor before crouching alongside them in front of France, steadying himself by laying one hand flat against France's leg, just above his good knee.

He reaches out with the other and gingerly trails the pads of his fingers across France's brow. France's entire face twinges in response to even that light touch, and he involuntarily looses a strangled curse.

"Jesus, it must be bad." Scotland chuckles weakly. "You hardly ever swear."

"It isn't," France reassures him. "It was just a shock. I didn't even realise I'd been cut there until you mentioned it."

"Really?" Scotland looks sceptical. "Well, it'll feel better once I get it cleaned up, no doubt."

He turns slightly, dips a piece of the cotton wool into the water, and then dabs it against France's wound. The contact stings at first, but that slight pain is quick to fade.

"It's not as bad as I thought," Scotland says, sounding pleased. "Not much more than a scratch, really. In my defence, it had bled a lot."

"Head wounds usually do, _Écosse_."

"I suppose." Scotland continues his dabbing until he reaches France's hairline. There, he hesitates, and swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply. "I'm going to have to move your hair out of the way. Is that okay?"

France almost laughs, but Scotland looks so anxiously earnest that he fights the impulse into submission, thinking it unkind. "Of course," he says.

Scotland drops the cotton wool and grazes his trembling fingers across the thin skin of France's temple to brush back his hair. "You're going to have a spectacular bruise here in the morning," he says, his voice wavering a little.

For someone who had been so reticent about touching France's hair just moments earlier, he seems reluctant to stop doing so now, when there's – ostensibly – no need for it anymore, and he twirls a strand of it around and through his index and middle fingers.

"When I first saw you over the wall," he says absently, "the light caught your hair and it shone like molten gold. I used to think it might burn my hand if I touched it, so I never dared to try."

One corner of his mouth is curled upwards in a small, lopsided smile, and his eyes are clear when they meet France's. Clear and unafraid.

Scotland doesn't flinch when France reaches out, unthinking, and presses his thumb against his mouth, wanting to feel the warmth of that smile, nor when he – equally mindlessly – then runs his hand along and up the line of his jaw and burrows his fingers in his hair, making his own discovery in the process that it is even coarser than it looks.

He doesn't even flinch when France, encouraged by this lack of response, kisses him.

He still doesn't respond, and remains completely immobile, breathing shallowly through his nose, until France draws back from him again.

"I wasn't expecting that," he says, his voice rasping dryly at the back of his throat. He's pale, his eyes wide and unblinking, but his lips retain a soft, curving hint of a smile, which France choses to interpret as a hopeful sign.

When he tries to touch Scotland again, however, Scotland shies away from his hand so violently that he almost overbalances. "Sorry, France," he says as he scrambles to his feet. "Sorry, I wasn't… I don't want…"

He seems unable to continue, but France reads both 'this' and 'you' very clearly in the vague hand gesture he resorts to in lieu of words.

France's stomach churns hot with embarrassment and disappointment commingled, but he forces himself to smile, to sound nonchalant and artless when he says, "So, tonight definitely wasn't a date, then."

Scotland shakes his head. "I didn't even realise that it might look that way until Wales mentioned it, just before we went out, and it was too late then to… I was just trying to do something nice for you, seeing as though England's been such an arse these past few days." He attempts another smile, faint and tremulous. "I've been happy that we've been able to spend time together lately. And I… I hoped we could be friends again. That's all I've ever wanted, and I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression otherwise. I'm not really much good with this sort of thing."

There had been no real impression, nor even much in the way of conscious thought; France had simply allowed himself to be deluded for a brief moment. He should have known better. He always _has_ known better before.

"I should…" Scotland runs his hands back through his hair, rough and frustrated, leaving it standing up in shocked clumps around his ears. "I should probably go, shouldn't I? Will you be okay?"

He peers back down at France's wound, and his hand starts to twitch, suggesting that he's contemplating prodding at it again.

France hurriedly waves his concern away. "I'll be fine, _Écosse_."

"And we're okay?" Scotland asks nervously.

"Of course," France assures him once more.

And they will be, France will make sure of it. He has missed Scotland's friendship too, after all, and he knows from experience now that he is fully capable of ignoring his attraction to Scotland, ignoring the duplicitous hints and misread signals that had allowed him, both then and, apparently, now to fool himself into believing that it might, in fact, be reciprocated.

It's like a muscle that has atrophied from disuse, and France is certain that, with practice and constant reinforcement, he can rebuild it so that it is just as strong as it had been in their youth.


	12. And an--

Despite insisting that he wanted to be friends with France, for the remainder of the conference, the only evidence for Scotland's continued stay at the hotel is his horrible car, which remains lurking malodourously in the car park throughout.

If he attends any more presentations, they are not the same ones that France does, and France doesn't catch so much of a glimpse of him in the either the dining room or bar, no matter what time of day he visits them. Their paths do not even happen to cross in the hotel's corridors or on the stairs, which given the size of the building and number of guests, seems so implausible as to be approaching a statistical impossibility.

On such evidence, the conclusion that he is deliberately avoiding France – most likely due to embarrassment, on his own behalf or France's – and by the end of the second day, France has both stopped looking for him and resigned himself to the prospect of Scotland fading out of his life once more until the vagaries of chance happen to throw them back into one another's orbits again by random happenstance.

He is surprised, therefore, to discover Scotland standing beside his hire car when he goes to pack it after check out on the last day of the conference. He has his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans and his head turned aside, seemingly transfixed by the sight of a bird hopping across the car park and completely unaware of France's approach, but when France has to pause and put down his – admittedly overstuffed – suitcase for a moment for fear that his shoulder might be in danger of dislocating itself otherwise, he hurries forward in an instant.

He plucks up the case as though it weighs nothing, places it in the boot as France, rather sullenly, directs, then leans his weight up against the car's back bumper afterwards and stares down at his own hands. "Do you have a spare minute?" he asks them.

France has at least thirty of them, to account for any stray herds of sheep that might conspire to slow his return journey just as they had done his outward. "I might," he nonetheless equivocates, not wanting to commit himself until he has a clear idea what Scotland wants from him, just in case he is planning on them taking another impromptu hike.

"I need to talk to you about something," Scotland says.

France looks at him expectantly, anticipating an apology for his recent behaviour and whatever excuse Scotland has concocted to explain it, but, though Scotland take wets his lips several times, neither is forthcoming.

"What is it?" France asks, when the silence between them threatens to stretch out into absurdity.

"Not here," Scotland says. "Somewhere private."

'Private' turns out to be the little walled garden that Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales had taken their smoke breaks in for the first three days of the conference; a venue chosen, it seems, because Scotland is in desperate need of a cigarette.

Or four. He guzzles them down in quick succession, just as he had in Ambleside, whilst he paces the length of the paved area with short, harried strides.

After disposing of the butt of the last in the cracked terracotta planter, he finally comes to a halt in front of France, his feet planted a firm shoulder-width apart, and his gaze fixed, steadfast and resolute, on the point of France's chin.

"I'm sorry," he says, "about what happened when you… when you kissed me. I know I acted like a twat, but I panicked. I panicked, and I lied. I did want you to."

Warmth blooms in France's chest, hope rising, but when he leans closer to Scotland, Scotland quickly steps back.

"I shouldn't have done, though," he says.

"Why not?"

"Because I thought I was over this. I _should_ be over it; over _you_." Scotland briefly screws his eyes closed. "The other day, you acted as though it would be weird to still be hung up on someone after seventy years. It's been more than seven hundred, what the hell does that make me?"

"I don't know," France says. "But whatever it is, I'm in the same boat."

It's a thought France has never allowed to become fully formed before, even in the privacy of his own mind, and speaking it aloud feels oddly liberating. Gratifying, too, because hearing it causes a slow smile to spread across Scotland's lips.

"Fucking hell," he breathes out, shaking his head wonderingly. "I had absolutely no idea."  
France can scarcely credit it. He had very little in the way of subtlety in his youth. "You didn't?"

"Well, I did manage to figure out that you'd probably been flirting with me after a century or two, but by that time you'd practically stopped doing it."

"Because you never reciprocated."

"You flirted with everyone, France, even my _kings_ , so I didn't think you'd ever really meant anything by it, even so," Scotland says. "Then you up and fucking disappeared out of my life completely when our alliance ended, so I got the message loud and clear that you weren't all that interested in me.

"Anyway, I moped around for far too long, pined after you and found meaning in some truly execrable poems of Wales', but time moved on, and I tried to, as well. Jersey helped snap me out of it, in the end."

France had heard rumours back in the nineteenth century that they were involved, but Jersey had always refused to either confirm or deny them. "Were you and she…?"

"Never," Scotland says emphatically." His colour rises again. "Well, we did kiss once, but it went about as well as ours did. She took pity on me afterwards and pretended it never happened. Naw, she helped by telling me that you would have been all wrong for me anyway. That you'd have cheated on me and broken my heart

"Charming," France drawls. "I'm overwhelmed by her cousinly love."

"Hey, it worked. I concentrated on that, and tried to put the rest of it out of my mind. I was doing okay with it all until you starting going out with England."

"You were jealous?" France guesses. Given his behaviour then, it would seem somewhat inevitable

"A little," Scotland says. "Mostly, I didn't like seeing how England treated you whilst you were together. Or how you treated him, to be honest. Wales and I used to take North and go and hide out in the park for most of the day whenever you visited, just to get away from the arguments. You have to admit, you were pretty bad for each other."

"And you thought we'd be better?"

"I'd hope so." Scotland shrugs. "And there was definitely a better chance of that then than there ever was when we were weans."

"And why's that?" France asks

"I was a shy, awkward kid who thought you'd hung the fucking moon, and you were so much more… worldly than me. You probably would have walked all over me, because you terrified me half the time, and I had no clue how to act around you, or how to talk to you." Scotland takes a long breath in, then releases it in a sigh. "Do you remember the night after we ratified our alliance? When we sat outside drinking wine and watching the stars together?"

 _Vividly_. France nods.

"I was going to promise to protect you, to lay down my life for you, because…" Scotland breathes deeply again, and then finishes in a gasping rush, "Because I was too scared to tell you that I thought I'd fallen in love with you."

France's own breath catches hard beneath his ribs. "But you didn't say either," he says softly.

"Like I told you, I'm not any good with this sort of thing," Scotland says. "I never have been, but I hope… I hope I can get better at it in the future."

This time, Scotland moves towards France and meets his kiss halfway. It's just as chaste as their last, and just as brief, too, as Scotland soon breaks away with a spluttered, "Sorry."

"It's been a while," he says, blushing to the roots of his hair, "I'm a bit out of practice. And don't bother asking me how long it's been," he adds, when France opens his mouth to tell him that he has nothing to apologise for, "you probably wouldn't believe me even if I did tell you."

It probably can't have been more than a handful of years – it seems doubtful that someone as handsome as Scotland would be lacking in potential partners for long – and France has had plenty of similar dry spells himself in the past, as his love life is far from the nonstop sexual cavalcade featuring a revolving cast of thousands that most nations seem to believe it to be. He's tempted to reassure Scotland on that point, but he looks so embarrassed already that France judges it kinder to leave the whole subject to die a natural death and move on.

"You're doing fine, _mon cher_ ," he says, squeezing Scotland's hand encouragingly. "Well, I do have one complaint. Your timing is awful. I need to leave" – he quickly checks his watch – "about ten minutes ago. I do have a plane to catch."

"Sorry," Scotland says again. "It took me this long to work up the courage to speak to you, and to practice what I was going to say. And it's not like we're going to have to rely on passing travellers or fucking carrier pigeons to deliver letters for us anymore. We can call each other, or Skype, or whatever, and…" His fingers tighten around France's convulsively, and he seemingly rediscovers his earlier fascination with France's chin. "My mate's band's playing a gig at my local the week after next. They're not very good, but most of my other human mates will be there too, so it should be a laugh, anyway. I'd like you to come, if you fancy it. I could introduce you to everyone, show you around Edinburgh. Maybe take you out for a meal again to make up for the music."

That definitely sounds like a date.

England has told France that Scotland's house is little better than a hovel, that his local pub is a rundown health hazard, and his mates are rude, ungrateful bastards who don't know a good footballer when they see one.

None of that seems like much in the way of a deterrent to France.

"I'd love to," he says.  
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\- **Invitation to his home!**

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Author's Note:** This fic was a lot of fun to write, I hope it was fun to read, too!


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